Geijin, part 1

Since I began writing this post, I thought, (as I remember more and more), that to be kind to my small group of readers, I would break this up a bit. A mini series, if you will.

So off we go...

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The year I traveled to Japan was also the year I graduated from college, the year I ended a tumultuous relationship with a brilliant schizophrenic artist, and the year I met my husband. M was now a past nightmare, K (my future husband) a wonderful conversation and a beautiful book of fairy tales I still had to return to him. Japan happened to me in the midst of all this vivid, harsh and wondrous reality. I felt as though I was living in a dream. Everything was on fast forward.

August 9-10, 1993

There was no time to process, so I remember very little of the flight from New Jersey to...Detroit? Chicago? I remember Detroit/Chicago mainly because of the vastness of the airport. I vaguely remember meeting my parents and my younger sister. I remember wondering how I was going to make it through the flight without a cigarette. I think my solution turned out to be lots and lots of black coffee. I do remember the delightful warm towels the flight attendants offered us, more than the cups of green tea (bad coffee tasted more like cigarettes to me at that point). I possibly remember it more clearly because wiping that warm cloth over my hands and face was one of the best things that had happened to me that week. It's the little things, isn't it?

I only dimly remember Narita Airport. T picked us up in a van with H. As we drove (or rolled... we spent three hours crawling through Tokyo rush hour) I realized we had suddenly been transported through two centuries into the future. The highways and bridges were like American city highways and overpasses on steroids, bigger better and more more more. I could easily imagine air cars flying over us through the canyon of skyscrapers. Perhaps a giant Mech peeking out from behind the Metropolitan Government Office. Absolutely overwhelming.

T and H lived in a little village, close to the Yokota Air Force base where my brother worked. We drove through a maze of small roads, and parked in the lot of a small apartment building. We stumbled into the apartment in a haze of semi-consciousness.

The first thing we did upon entering was take off our shoes. The entryway was a little space to leave your shoes before you stepped up into the apartment. Carolie has a wonderful description of her house in Japan...T's was like that, but in super miniature. Sliding doors to save space. A kitchen, a “living room”, a delightful little tatami room with shoji screens, and a small western style room H used as a studio for her craft work. The bathroom was just that...a room that was a shower and a bath. You scrubbed down in the shower before you climbed into the deep bath (this tub is deeper and shorter than American baths) The water is preheated before you even turn on the faucet. They had a little WC for the toilet with a sink on the back to wash your hands. The kitchen had a wonderful little cooler for bread and veggies built into the floor, a super rice maker that did everything but lock up the apartment for the night, and a sink that was forbidden to my Dad. “In my house, YOU do not wash!” So quoth my sister-in-law.

We ate an abbreviated meal of miso soup, tea, and three kinds of fish paste (fish paste is a staple in Japan...some I liked more than others). H gave my sister and I beautiful folding fans with cloth cases. K (my younger sister) started to fall asleep in her soup bowl. So we broke out the futons and went to bed.

My sister & I slept in the “craft room”, for which I was eternally grateful, as it allowed me a quiet means of escape in the early morning when I wanted to go out for a smoke (my family, I thought, had no idea I was a butt-head...at least, in the smoker sense). I hadn't shared a room with my sister for years...and now, instead of arguing over who got to turn out the light, we lay awake on our futons “debating” whether ALL white people are racist. K, (then an earnest student at Sarah Lawrence) said adamantly yes, and I (having just graduated from art school and lived in down town Philly for four years), said adamantly no. Unfortunately, she took my disagreement as an attack on her intellect. I felt the need for some fresh air, suddenly. And some deep breathing. So of course I went out for a smoke.

The walk really was a desperate maneuver to have a solitary moment. I had been soaking in people for over 40 hours, people I didn't feel I could speak openly with, people I felt were living in a universe constructed of overlapping egos vying for control. Pretending everything was open and “normal” when in reality it was a tangle of unspoken disappointments, regrets, suicidal tendencies and untreated depression.

So I snuck outside and took a walk, dragged slowly on my Camel Light, and wondered what lay on the other side of the high, tiles topped walls that lined the narrow streets. I saw the tops of trees over them, and imagined stone lanterns and carp pools dotting the neighborhood. Then there was a main road, and a gas station, and vending machines, where I bought myself a funky coffee, and let myself feel the strangeness of incomprehension. I couldn't understand the kanji on the street signs, the shop signs, the vending machines. I'd traveled before, but in Europe, even when I couldn't understand the words, the letters were still familiar. Here, for the first time, I really felt like a foreigner. It made my blood stir.

I fancied myself strolling off without my family into the countryside and vaguely wondered how far I would get. Then I laughed at myself and started back.

Wednesday, August 11.

I've been talking to my parents about this trip, and Dad sent me his abbreviated diary of events and place names. It was intriguing to see what my father wrote...for instance, he paid particular attention to where we all were as we sat around the table to eat. H cooked us a traditional Japanese breakfast of grilled fish, rice, miso soup, shredded lettuce and tomatoes. H brought Dad a fork and knife after he struggled with the chopsticks for a while. Dad remembers drinking Taster's Choice coffee, most likely supplied by my brother at the supermarket on base. He also remembered not having to wash the dishes afterwards. After breakfast, I showed off slides of what I'd been doing in art school.

That morning, we drove to Fussa and walked around. H tried to teach us the kanji for “ramen” and after a while, I thought I could pick out those signs on tiny shops throughout the narrow streets as we walked. People watching was a very different experience from back home. Everyone here was so...THIN. Coming from Philadelphia, one of the heaviest cities in the US, this was a bit of a revelation. After we stopped at a bookstore (manga-riffic!), and picked up some bean paste pastries to munch on, we headed for the Fussa Eki (the train station).

Then, off to Tachikawa.

The trains. Oh my, the trains. You know those pictures you sometimes see of commuters literally being pushed and packed into trains by station attendants? It happens. And there is, literally, no room to breath. Some people wore face masks. With TB still a problem in Japan, people are VERY hygienic. But then, the people of Japan would be hygienic regardless. Almost everyone carried a handkerchief, and scented fans were flapping everywhere. The train was packed, and hot. At least we didn't have to worry about falling over.

Mall Rats.

It was a huge department store, restaurants on one level, groceries in the basement, clothing and books and furniture and electronics and more electronics. And then more. We strolled though the booths in the basement food stalls, and a graying vendor smiled and bowed and offered us...little tiny silver fish. They were whole, each one about an inch in length. Little eyes bugged up at me. The delightful man nodded and made a hand motion for us to eat. I smiled back and popped the little fish in my mouth, and chewed. And chewed. Crunchy, salty and chewy, I thought that this was, perhaps, a perfect bar food. Now I wanted a beer.

Instead, we wandered up to the floor of restaurants and window shopped. Every restaurant had windows and windows of fake food on display, for each item on the menu. Some of these were quite beautiful. And it showed you EXACTLY what you would be served. I ate my first bowl of noodles...the first of many. Soy ramen, yum. I'm a fan. We talked about what to do in the days to come. I had to leave on the 19th, so it was suggested that we make the Saitama Craft Center a priority. They talked about shrines to visit, meeting H's family, working it all in. It was also the week of Obon, the Japanese festival of the Dead. They debated and repeated themselves and barely listened to one another, each person locked in their own inner dialog. We couldn't even begin to create a schedule. T & H would inevitably create it, I knew, and felt guilty at my own reticence and inability to make decisions. What did I want? It could be so simple, I thought. Why is this such a struggle for everyone?

I felt my blood pressure begin to rise. I wanted a cigarette. I was asked what I wanted to do. I said all their suggestions sounded great, and in a quiet burst of red, suggested Tokyo Disney Land. If we are all going to exist in our individual little lands of make believe, I thought, we might as well have fun doing it. And we could at least be honest about living fantasy lives in Disney Land. T looked confused at my suggestion, perhaps because for the past couple of years I had been going through my ostentatious “Disney is evil” phase of life. But at the moment, my personal politics didn't matter quite as much as getting through the vacation without losing my mind.

To be continued...