Big in Japan

Japan is probably the hardest country to write about. It’s difficult to revisit without past impressions leaking into the present, impossible to separate it out. I have to articulate how things have changed rather than how things are. And Japan, it being “my country,” is especially difficult. I’ve been here a handful of times. My father is from here. My parents lived here for a very short span in my own lifetime. Of one member of a trio on the ship, it’s easy to point me out as the one who looks different, Asian. It’s easy to mistakenly associate me with Japan, especially for an outsider.

But Japan still holds so much novelty for me; I don’t understand the language, the culture and all of its invisible intricacies, the roads, the routes, though I manage to put on an impressive show for those completely foreign to it. And though my friends, American as they are, sense a tinge of orient sun in my skin, I naturally feel more white than Asian, and the Japanese would agree with my judgment. Long story short, Japan is a strange place for me to be, like the abducting beams from competing alien spacecrafts are both working to spirit me away, all the while dangling sweet fruits and confectioneries from the top of each portal so that I feel equally enticed to enter both. Or something like that.

As another introduction to this segment, and an additional representation of my “identity crisis,” I will relate to you a story, a true story, of something that happened to me on the ship to precede our arrival in Japan.

This story concerns the dean of Semester at Sea, named Leonard Schoppa, and his wife-accomplice whose name has escaped me for the better. Dining with them, seated around a round table, are a few spectators. Then there is me, standing where a waitress would stand were she serving them. Relevant back-story: In preparation for arrival in each country, Semester at Sea calls the students together in the main lecture hall for an hour-or-so long briefing on foreign customs and attractions and currency-exchange and so-on. A student or two from the ship joins two students from the next destination to relate their own experiences and provide advice, etc., and Leonard Schoppa, a curly-headed brunette whose body matches the thickness, length and width of a pillar, was the man in charge of rallying students for this service. And being the charitable person that I am, I approach this Japanophile Leonard Schoppa to inquire about being involved in the “pre-port,” as they’re called, for Japan. The following is the conversation that ensued:

CHARITABLE STUDENT: I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you could tell me how I could get involved with the cultural pre-port for Japan.

LEONARD: (Points one finger into the air and lifts another up to his mouth to show it is too full for speech. Eyes cross as he chokes down lumps of potatoes.) You know about Japan?

STUDENT: Well, my dad is from there, and I’d say I’ve spent a good amount of time there, too.

LEONARD: (Smiles a smile that will persist throughout the dialogue.) Great, great.

STUDENT: So I was wondering if there are any topics you’d like to have covered, or if the speakers can just talk openly about whatever they find interesting?

(Student leans on nearby railing as Leonard turns away for a

time to share his smile with his meal-mates. Leonard props an

elbow on the railing and twists his torso to face the student.)

LEONARD: Well, (Ahem), Judging from your appearance, I’m guessing you’d like to talk about anime?

STUDENT: (Baffled.) Well, actually, I would say I lack even the slightest—

WIFE-ACCOMPLICE: (Delighted.) You look just like Sailor Moon!

STUDENT: Uh—

LEONARD: Does she ever!

(Student scans the faces of the Schoppas’ company and finds them

all wearing the painted smiles of a circus ring. Student grips

railing, tests her arm for the strength needed to pry it from

the ground for a weapon. Not enough. Student kindly retreats,

resolving to never associate with Japano-phillic administrator again.)

It’s true that Leonard Schoppa is not the first to relate my appearance to that of the Japanese cartoon variety, what with the very un-Japanese wide eyes and modest mouth at rest, the crescent-moon squint and mouth that stretches across the whole face when smiling, but I expect more from an academic dean of an international voyage, much less a man who lived out his boyhood in Japan. Does not his breadth of knowledge extend beyond anime? And to so openly pass such judgments—it’s just tactless. So this is the position from which I am entering Japan, a country I fit into only by caricature.

Now that I’ve set the climate for this entry, I’ll get to the good stuff. Of course, it is exciting to re-visit a place after being thrown into the vast, exotic jungles of other countries; now I can show people around, explain transportation, see my parents who are currently living in Tokyo. Japan is still my favorite place, in a sense, and there are plenty of good things to say.

As a more modern country of those we visited, the entry process in Kobe is much more involved and takes about three hours for everyone to disembark. Luckily, those on organized field trips (including myself) are let off first, so I am stuck between the gates for only half an hour or so. I track down my group (consisting of friends Kelsey and Jen, and fifteen-or-so others), led by my professor of two classes, Paul Groner, and after chasing down my mother via payphone to organize our meeting in Kyoto, we’re off.

Exiting the building, the sounds and colors surprise me. Leaving a place, (as I left Japan last December), I expect everything to be covered by a big dark cloud that preserves the dignity of the area until I can return with the power to roll back the shroud and see it again, with less color. But nothing is dulled at all, everything is bright and new, but familiar. It is a wonderful feeling, overwhelming, and I revel in the excitement until we arrive at the train station and everyone starts bombarding me with pleads for help. The ticket machines are covered with weird writing!

I enjoy making myself useful then, to share my secret-society-of-Japan knowledge and impress people as I help them along. As expected, though, everyone makes monkey bars out of the handles lining the train. And I, wanting desperately to swing, remain loyal to the secret society and its rules by staying seated. Some passengers stare at them, horrified by their poor manners, others direct their eyes forward to avoid confrontation, and the last few sleep, heads slowly bobbing with the bumps in the track.

Travel from the port to our destination (Toji Temple) in Kyoto is a bit more complicated than I had expected, requiring three transfers between monorails, bullet trains, subways and trains.

Snafus are many in the Kobe station as we all stop by a sushi stand to order lunch, everyone both unfamiliar with the choices and unable to read the menu. I make recom-mendations, as does Paul Groner (who spent a decade studying/researching Buddhism in Japan), and eventually, the food is nicely laid in bamboo boxes and wrapped in plastic bags. The next halt comes at the bullet train ticket counter as everyone struggles with one rehearsed phrase: Kyoto ni kippu hitotsu onegaishimasu. (One ticket to Kyoto, please.) Meanwhile, I worry that I sent my mother along too early, as I haven’t anticipated my journey to be so slow. So, after the bullet train to Kyoto, as everyone confusedly goes about securing their tickets to Toji, I rush ahead to meet my mama.

And what a joyous reunion! After months on the open sea, in unfamiliar lands, a hug from my mama is just the ticket. And having been at that station before, seeing that the McDonalds, curiously tall and slim, has remained in its place across the street, is a refreshing sight. Twenty minutes later, the rest of the crew finally arrives. What took them so long, I can’t understand. I proudly introduce everyone to my mother who, whiter than some of them, managed to make it here without a hitch. You go, Mom.

Down the street to Toji Temple we go. The walk is exactly as I remember it, same colors, same number of people on the sidewalks. Professor Groner takes us into a temple museum stocked with religious statues and scrolls; the most impressive of all are towering statues of Komokuten, a humanity-guarding king, surrounded by flames and backed by bright vermillion paint. A few statues of Yama, the Hell God, catch my eye, too.

The next stop is Tofuku-ji, a Zen temple. Everyone gets lost trying to find the “San-mon Gate,” until we all collide somewhere in the middle. Once we’re all herded together, Professor Groner leads us down a bridge to paradise, a small forest replete with every shade of living plant from yellow to deep red. The curve of the tree trunks leads the eye to a narrow river streaming over a polished rock bed, the end of which I can’t see from here. It is everything nature should be, serene but lively, though the temple’s name led me to be disappointed when tofu is, in fact, nowhere to be seen.

Seeing this arrangement proves to me that the Japanese know aesthetics. How else can I explain why koi are the only fish that don’t trigger my gag reflex? And for a person who isn’t particularly moved by nature, here, the intricacy of the trees, of even the simplest green things shooting out of the ground—it’s all ornate but bold and pronounced at the same time. Someday, I will build a hut here, take a vow of silence and pick berries for breakfast. Not yet, though. I’m not ready.

The temple’s closing brings us to the end of our field trip. Mom and I accompany a lovely ship sociology professor Christine Wernet, (who was also one of my roommates at Dakshina Chitra). After dining on the very traditional ramen and udon, I escort the professor back to the ship to ensure her safety while mother returns to her own Kyoto inn.

Later that night, (unbeknownst to my parents! Shhh), after running across countless fliers for this spectacular Welcome, Semester at Sea! event, the crew (Kristin, Drew, Kelsey, Chris and Scott) heads into the city of Kobe to see what it has to offer. The short monorail trip into the town is directly followed by confusion, as it turns out none of us knows how to read a map. After fifteen minutes of walking, we come across a taxi driver—the only car that has passed our way in minutes—and I do my best to explain our predicament. His speech is sloppy and accented, so I eventually give up trying with him. A group of four hip-to-it girls walk our way, and I stop them to ask "where da party at?" but they don’t understand me. All is not in vain, though, because were it not

for these girls, our map would still be upside down; our destination lies on the opposite side of Kobe station.

Defeated, we seek consolation in a neon lit convenience store. The candy and chilled beverages surrounding us do the trick, and we leave the store with renewed hope. (We may or may not have been holding and sipping malted chu-hais.)

Without much trouble, we find the bar advertised on the flier. We waltz up the stairs, proud members of the Semester at Sea group, but upon reaching the top, a bouncer explains in his very poor English that the bar is full, and we have to go away now. So I, working my dual-citizenship, beg (in Japanese) to be let in, and magically, he grants none of us entrance. Is he not impressed by my dexterous tongue? The answer: No, he is not.

Foiled once again, we collapse down the stairs and continue down the street where a slew of SAS kids are loitering American-style. A bouncer at the nearest bar is yelling at them to scatter, or the police will come and and ticket them. So they, American-like, remain in place, drinking their canned beers on the sidewalk louder than ever. Here, I find myself at another awkward juncture. Do I knock cans with my vulgar crew? Do I pass by quietly? The answer: I approach the horde, laugh and yell as I pass through the center, and ultimately pass them by.

On the other side is an attractive maybe-Japanese girl, about my age, holding a sign for a nearby bar. She stops us in her perfect English and asks us about our stations in life—what is this program? where are you from? where are you going? etc. She and I form an instant bond as we realize our mutual connection to UC Davis. She is recently graduated from there, and I am to be an alumna of the university in the next year. In the bar, we find even more to be excited about: As Japanese majors, we know the same professors; we share a number of mutual friends, including my ex-boyfriend who happened to date her best friend; and we lived on the same street, though at different times. So naturally, she buys me every drink I have that evening (at a greatly reduced price, I’m sure, as her boyfriend owns the bar). Unfortunately, she leaves early due to a prior engagement, but what she leaves me with is surely worth the untimely parting: a sense that Japan is more of a home than I had recognized, and a new Facebook friend. One can never have too many.

The following day is for a much anticipated tour of Osaka, my old stomping grounds. With myself as the guide, I bring a few friends (Kristin, Chris, Kelsey and Scott) to the central area of Shinsaibashi, the highlight of which is El Pancho Mexican Restaurant. I first discovered it when studying abroad in Kyoto; it was an hour away, but very much worth the three trips I made there. Especially now, after three months of shippy food on board, or traditional food in port (save for the best pizza of my life in Namibia) everyone is in the mood for Mexican.

The area itself provides a wonderful taste of Japan as well; the main station exit leads to a sort of tunnel lined with clothing stores, cafes, and Hello Kitty décor. As we stroll down the walk, full-bellied, we pass the often visited Shakey’s Pizza Buffet, familiar shoe stores. And at the end, the bridge that gave Shinsaibashi its name (bashi meaning bridge), the carousel over the river with a cartoon god nested on top. Then, passing the tall buildings at the end, the view that struck me so the first time I discovered it. Restaurants, each with its own mechanical mascot, greet the passersby; the crowd, twice as busy here, is amplified by the shouts of young girls and boys in the doors of their restaurants, calling us inside. The energy here is intense, and I am thrilled to find that my friends love it as much as I do.

After absorbing all of the energy we can hold, we depart for Kyoto to meet mother at Sanju-sangen-do. Among the least interesting temples I have been to, Sanju-sangen-do (lit: “hall with thirty-three spaces between columns”) takes thousand-armed Kannon, arguably the most popular Buddhist deity—probably because he is of the more merciful type—as its centerpiece. Surrounding a large golden statue of him are one thousand more statues of him, though smaller—about life-size. Around those statues are twenty-eight more, of guardian deities. Naturally, Japanese visitors pay homage to these deities for their own protection by placing gifts at their feet, things like money (concealed in envelopes, of course), candles, and oddly enough, un-Buddhist sake. And the sake, apparently, is drunk by the monks or by laypeople, the empty bottles returned to their places before the deities. It is true that Japan appears more traditional than other Asian countries at first glance, but religiously speaking, they are surprisingly liberal (especially with libations).

Kiyomizu-dera is next. In my first visit last year, I met it with indifference; as the first temple I visited in Kyoto during my study abroad stay, I assumed that my parents arranged the trip there only because of its proximity to the school. It was attractive, to be sure, but I was more interested then in the tens of souvenir shops along the road. It was only after visiting other temples in the area, and in other areas, that I realized how impressive the shrine is.

Returning now, I find it all so charming. The colors are perfectly balanced and arranged around the buildings, though it all looks so natural in display. The height at which it is located allows for breathtaking views all the way around. In the center is a deep gorge and a full landscape of trees; from one extreme, I can see the cityscape of Kyoto; and on some concealed hill slopes hide themed sanctums to memorialize deceased children or pray for health. It is especially nice to watch my friend’s expressions as they wander through.

When it becomes dark, we head to our inn, Ryokan Nakajimaya. It looks exactly like a house in all respects, though a bit larger than a traditional Japanese house, with extra rooms for guests. We are greeted at the door by an adorable Japanese woman, nearly a foot shorter than all of us, but with the verve of a teenager. She leads us to our bedrooms up a very steep set of stairs, very clearly designed for a small Japanese foot. The rooms are closed off with rice paper screens, coated with thick tatami floors, and are surprisingly sizeable. Four of us (me, Kristin, Kelsey, and Emily who is yet to arrive) take the girls’ room, and the other three (Scott, Chris, and Drew who is also yet to arrive) take the boys’. Scott, with a football player’s physique, has to fold halfway over to pass through the doorways. Freed of our luggage, we go to dinner. This traditional city calls for another traditional meal: Okonomiyaki (lit.: “what you like, grilled). Attributed to the Kansai area (Kyoto, Osaka) of Japan, okonomiyaki is a sort of savory pancake of egg, flour and vegetables, (meat, too, if desired), and I have yet to meet someone disapproving of it. Topped with green onions and sweet Worcestershire-like sauce, this dish can be customized to all tastes, (except for Yoshi’s, but only because of its gluten content).

After dinner, we retire to our respective inns. When we awaken the next morning, we poison our purified bodies with a McDonalds breakfast. McMuffins and McGriddles—filthy in every country. Mom met us on the corner in a cab, scooped up our luggage, and in two cars, we depart for the Kyoto train station to take a bullet train ride to Tokyo. I have been on bullet trains, (or as Japanese call them, the shinkansen), but I am always astounded by the ride. It is the closest to teleporting I have ever come, the world whizzing by through the window, and smooth smooth smooth all the way.

The problem comes later, after we’re off the train, when it comes time to board another train to a smaller station in Shinjuku, where my parents live. As with all mother-related messes, I get more frustrated than I should as Janet realizes that we mistakenly deserted some necessary train tickets in a machine, and proceeds to freak out Janet-style. Voice elevated, feet stomping, arms flinging wildly about her like streamers, she sifts through her thoughts aloud and walks in circles. “We'll have to buy a new ticket! What’ll we do…what’ll we do!” Her mumbles silence our advice, but eventually, she has no choice but to follow us as we walk away, back to the machine to explain our situation to a station attendant (we are foreigners, after all). As expected, the blue-capped gentleman is very understanding, opens the ticket machine and returns our lost tickets to us. Job well done, team.

*(I include this anecdote not to embarrass my mother, but simply because it is among the more memorable Japanese happenings.)

My parent’s apartment, owned by the university at which my father is teaching, is extravagant for this country. It contains not only a carpeted bedroom, but two carpeted bedrooms, a carpeted living room, and a clothes dryer! Unheard of. This dear domicile tells me that my father must be a very important man.

That evening, we meet my cousins (Akiko, Kaori and Yoshiko) in Harajuku, where Japanese fashion gets out of control. Girls in Little-Bo-Peep outfits, boys with every imaginable color in their hair—it is plain absurd. As soon as everyone scans the area, we head toward Shinjuku, a more modest area, where we settle on a restaurant called Jonathan’s for dinner. If food belongs to families, traditional Japanese being one, McDonalds being the other, Jonathan’s would fall into the latter. Their plates are all western dishes with a tweak, and not necessarily a good one.

Upon leaving, we stroll the main street of business towers and clothing mega stores, then head to Shibuya where we entertain ourselves on the bottom level of a department store. There, we reap the exotic savory and sweet samples offered by spirited salespeople and indulge in Fuji apples and green tea ice cream, both of which are exponentially tastier than the American copies.

Sayonara to my Japanese cousins, then it’s off to Asakusa for us Americans. The non-cousin few (Kelsey, Scott, Chris and Emily) are staying in a hostel there, so we center the night’s activities around a few block radius, including Tokyo’s oldest temple and a karaoke bar.

We spend the next few hours in Shunjuku at my parent’s house, to sleep, then it’s right back to Asakusa for a most magical day. Though a couple of us are hesitant at first, as soon as we’re cruising down the main street on our bicycles, everyone is elated. Even Scott whose knees hit the handlebars, Kristin whose butt hurts, and Drew who insists on racing everybody cannot deny the bliss encircling us.

We stop at a multi-building grocery store for fruit, sushi and mochi then continue through the gates of Ueno Park for a picnic. We find a secluded refuge with a roof of tangled, leafy branches; on one side of us is a humble temple with one monk idling by the entryway; on the other is a pond with the kind of marshy bottom that yields lotus flowers, lily pads and deep-voiced frogs. The boys get rowdy, picking fruit from an overhanging tree and pitching it at one another. The girls eat, hearts full.

On our way back to the bike rental station, on a winding route, we happen upon a pond rimmed with paddleboats of all kinds—rowboats, pedal boats, swan boats. Naturally, all of us go for the swan boats, except for Chris who tries his hand at the rowboat. He paddles backwards long enough to get frustrated then trades his boat in for a swan. We skim along the edge of the pond then sit for long increments to nibble on the last of the mochi and rice crackers. When we’re tired enough, we return the boats and ride on into the gloaming.

Our last stop comes as we discover a walkway of craft andantique vendors. But we bore quickly, have a group picture taken before a fountain background, then return to the bike rental office by means of busy shop-filled avenues and intersections.

Kristin, Drew and I part ways with the rest and depart for Shibuya. There, we are to meet my parents and a certain half-Japanese boy with whom I grew up, more or less. Our parents were friends somehow, and in every visit to Japan, my brother and I played with the boy (Jack) and his sister (Emi); our ages were perfect, Yoshi two years older than me and one year older than their oldest (Jack) who’s two years older than his sister. It’s funny to see now how differently we’ve ended up, as Jack and Emi spent most of their childhood in Japan and went to America for college. Yoshi and I are undeniably American, born and raised. Seeing Jack now is like seeing how I could have been, and to be honest, it makes me a bit sad. His Japanese is perfect, obviously, and mine sucks.

My parents leave, and us kids go to a ramen shop, then off to a few nighttime attractions in the area. In our romp, we encounter a few SAS kids, which is a bit disappointing because I am reminded, after almost a week of freedom, that I am no more than one of hundreds of foreigners who is here by consequence of others’ hard work. But I would like to try to be. More, that is. Be more. Anyway. We dance a little at a place called Gaspanic as some very inebriated Japanese people try to make friends with us, then we sprint to the last train and barely make it home.

The next day is a very sad one indeed. We are leaving Japan.

The ship is berthed in Yokohama, so after saying bai-bai to Otosan (Dad) and Okasan (Mom), all of us (Kristin, Drew, Scott, Kelsey, Emily, Chris and I—what a tight little clan we've become) meet and take a half an hour train ride there; with our bags tucked on our laps or resting on the shelves above, our heads bob slowly with the bumps on the track, and we are exhausted from all of these long days.

But reaching Yokohama, the journey is not yet over. A friend of mine from Davis, Josh Shiau, is studying at Meiji University so we meet him for lunch at (surprise!) a ramen shop. The place is so small that we have to sit on our luggage. This being my third ramen meal, I am starting to notice differences between them all. This particular bowl is less flavorful than last night’s, but saltier than the first. I wonder if there is any demand in Japan for noodle connoisseurs.

Our journey ends with the last slurp of noodle. We say goodbye to my Chinese-American friend who blends in surprisingly well here with his small stature, sharp suit-style dress and thick glasses. Then, after picking up a final few Japanese goodies in the very impressive port building, we board. As soon as I'm back on the ship, I start planning my next trip to Japan. Everyone can't stop talking about how much they love Japan, and that makes me very proud, it being "my country."