1Travelogue
I got through customs and there was Nao Katsuno, waiting with open arms and a cart to carry my luggage. Our hug was brief. What else could it be? I barely knew her. I had waited so long to get here, planning for weeks, sitting in a cramped plane for thirteen hours, and now I wanted to go back. Too late. Nao's parents hung back, smiling and looking every bit as awkward as I felt. I changed my money over to yen, thankful for the easy conversion because I had forgotten my calculator: one hundred yen was equivalent to about one dollar.
Nao tugged at my sweater. "You will be hot," she warned, motioning to the sun beating through the high glass ceiling over our heads. Suspended by thin wires between the steal beams above, dragons, sakura blossoms, and carp floated in an artificial breeze. These symbols of Japan made me feel more comfortable somehow. Japan welcomes me, gaijin, foreigner. Everyone I had met during my trip had been polite, almost painfully so. All the customs officials spoke English, directing me with soft smiles and graceful hand motions to the proper areas for passport stamping and luggage pickup. Their job was to make foreigners feel at home, but something about being one of the only Americans in a sea of Asian faces was disconcerting.
"Atsui desu," Nao's mother said, nodding.
I patted my pockets for the mini Japanese English dictionary I had wasted fifteen dollars on at the Minnesota-St. Paul layover. Of course the word atsui wasn't included.
"She says it hot," Nao said.
I smiled and removed my sweater, then smiled some more as I couldn't think of anything interesting to say. The heat slapped me in the face when we walked outside. They were right, it was hot. Despite the heat, I hoped for a long walk to the Katsuno's car. My legs were screaming. My fifteen hundred dollar flight made me wish I had spent the extra two hundred dollars for a first class seat, where I could watch box office hits on my own personal screen instead of made-for-TV movies with a broken headset. We made our way through the Kansai Airport's parking garage past rows and rows of Toyotas, Hondas, and Mitzubishis. Feeling like the stereotypical Japanese tourist in America, I made everyone stop so I could take a picture of the Minica-the smallest real car I'd ever seen. When we reached the Katsuno's car, I promptly snapped a picture. Their car was nothing special, really-except for the name, Super Saloon. I couldn't help but smile at the mental picture of swinging saloon doors instead of the metal ones it had.
The ride to Nao's home may have seemed mundane to her, but to me, it was thrilling. My second picture of the day was a view of the Kansai Airport from the Osaka Superhighway. Kansai Airport is a feat of engineering, or so I saw on a TLC special. The Japanese engineers created an island with bulldozers and cranes off the coast of Osaka. The island was created only for Kansai Airport, and is the only one of its kind. I marvelled at the thought that the inhabitants of an island would create an island, then turned my attention back to the highway. Even the most commonplace street signs seemed exotic, the words "stop" and "left turn only" painted in intricate kanji characters. The ride was quiet, punctuated by occasional murmurs between Nao's mother and father. Nao's mother proudly said a few English words Nao taught her before I arrived.
"See," she said, pointed out her window. "See."
"I see," I replied hesitantly, not seeing at all.
"Do you say ocean?" Nao asked, noticing my helpless look.
"Oh, yes, ocean." Between high-rise apartment buildings and over clay tiled roofs I caught glimpses of the Pacific Ocean. The ocean waves mimicked my feelings, washing in-my heart swelled with excitement, washing out-I wondered what I was thinking. I wanted to say something, anything, to Nao. I just couldn't think of anything interesting to say. I wished I had gotten to know her better before I came all this way to spend two weeks in her home. She had been an exchange student to my old high school (a small, private Christian school connected to a church) two years ago, one year after I had graduated. I had hoped to get to know her when I heard she was coming, but didn't know how. I didn't really have any connections in my old high school. I went to church once to see if I could talk to her, but she was surrounded by all the old people I had worked so hard to avoid in high school. I stayed far away from the popular crowd, which, in my small school was just about everyone. There were only a few people I considered friends, but even then I often found it hard to relate to them. I wanted to have art, drama, and writing classes; most of the people there wanted sports and days off for hunting season. For the most part I stayed out of the regular school scene, opting to doodle anime characters in the margins of my notebook rather than join a conversation about the school's terrible basketball team. I claimed I tried to fit in, or that they just couldn't see things my way. Looking back, I think I may have worked harder to isolate myself. In my first year there, I was urged to do things with them, like bump a volleyball around the gym or chase the youth minister down the halls, but these were things I had no interest in. I declined their invitations so many times that when they did start to do things I was interested in, they didn't think to ask me, and I didn't think to invite myself. Soon after, I began to purposely wear black clothing almost every day, and chose styles they would dislike. They still wore clothes I wore ten years ago, so almost anything made in the style of the day would do. I sat in corners and listened in on conversations, never joining in, not even when invited.
Our first stop was at a restaurant. My stomach tied itself into a thousand knots when we pulled into the parking lot. From the roof hung giant banners painted with red, white, and blue fish, which brought to mind one word: sushi. Most Americans have the wrong impression of sushi, they believe it is merely raw fish. Raw fish is sashimi. That I can handle. Sushi is raw fish wrapped in rice sticky from a raw egg, which is then wrapped in dried seaweed, nori. I detested every part of sushi. I wanted to ask Nao what to expect but decided against it. To my relief, Nao informed me that this was a soba noodle restaurant. All the travel guides I read said the least offensive food to American tastebuds was soba. The waitress delivered warm, rolled towels to our table.
Nao whispered, "Wash hands for cleaning before food."
The menu consisted of full-color photographs, but Nao's mother chose my food-ice-cold buckwheat noodles, fried shrimp, and vegetables, including what looked like a fried maple leaf. Nao's mother traded my leaf for a sweet yellow egg square. I enjoyed my meal, but couldn't finish the enormous plate of noodles. Nao amazed me by eating her entire plate, finishing her father's, and eyeing mine. Her parents paid for the bill, despite my feeble hand gestures. I asked Nao if I should pay, but she refused.
I was happy to see we were making one more stop. Nao knew this was one of the main reasons for my trip, and wanted to make sure I saw as much of it as I could. It was not a great tourist destination, but a Japanese used bookstore. I was there to look for Japanese comics, manga. I was an otaku, obsessive fan-a word with negative connotations to the Japanese, but worn as a badge of honor by those in the states. Otaku is a label applied to any obsessive fan, but Americans use it to refer to those with a passion for anime, Japanese animation. I was amazed by the inexpensive prices of the manga here, one hundred yen for a book costing fourteen dollars at home. I snatched up all the manga I could carry, despite Nao's warning that I would not have enough room in my suitcase if I shopped like this on my first day. I grabbed a few extras for my father. He was not an otaku, of course; at least, not an anime otaku. He was a big seller on Ebay and would appreciate them. He sold everything he could find, including his decades-old collections: and old camera collection, Dick and Jane readers, Depression glass from the 1940's, coins, stamps, even some of my mother's old dishes. Anything he had was acquired with the thought that he might be able to sell it on Ebay; we often joked that the family dog was next. His Ebay obsession was part of a running streak of different jags he went off on, including building his own furniture and restoring an old sailboat. Each new preoccupation left the old one behind, but Ebay was perfect for him: past fancies meant quick cash.
I was the same way, really. My bedroom fortress of everything related to anime had soared to record heights in just a year. I kept meticulous track of each and every piece in my collection, and a running total of everything. I had nearly three thousand dollars in merchandise in my bedroom. Almost everything came from the Internet, from six foot painted pieces of cloth called wall scrolls to a three foot plush doll of my favorite character, Sailor Moon. I had forty two dolls, which I kept in elaborate arrangements in every available space. My bookshelf had been emptied to make way for the anime party goods, my desk hadn't seen homework for years because of my bento lunch box display, and even my bed was beginning to fill up with pillows and UFO crane-game prizes. There was just something so appealing about those characters with the giant eyes. They were so different from female cartoon characters in America, which usually turned out to be angelically good, beautiful, or cookie cutter strongwomen. These superheroes were whining fourteen year old girls, spunky wanderers, love-struck marionette robots, or moody, brooding loners. With those criteria even I could be a superhero.
Our last stop was Nao's home. It was surprisingly large for a place where most houses were scaled down for maximum efficiency. As was every house I'd seen so far, it
was surrounded by a concrete walkway and a six food brick wall. I supposed it was for safety or privacy concerns, but I thought it was isolating. Every inch of available space outdoors was covered with potted plants and flowers, a connection to the traditional religious belief that ancestors are nature gods. Inside, Nao showed me how to use the traditional Japanese bath room, in which the bathtub and shower are separate. I found it disgusting that everyone in the household used the same water, but Nao responded with the thought that it is disgusting that Americans bathe in their own dirty water. Each person showers before entering the tub, which is for relaxation only.
Nao's parents' room was traditional as well, with tatami mats covering the floor on which they slept every night. In Nao's bedroom, a small bed sat in the corner in place of tatami, which, to me, detracted from the Japanese experience. I couldn't complain, though, about my free lodgings. Nao's bedroom was almost as cluttered as mine with American things she had collected. Nao had McDonald's prizes, Rugrats toys, and Sesame Street things scattered around.
I smiled and admired her things politely. It reminded me of the first day Nao visited my room. All she could say was "sugoi." Wow. She was impressed by my collection, but I got the sense she found it amusing, just as I was finding hers. I had hoped she would translate some of my manga, but she laughed and informed me that I was interested in "elementary school things." It was true, my anime collection consisted of shoujo anime, magical girl animation geared to girls aged eight to fourteen. It was fun to have Nao at my house, but we never had a real conversation, only casual talk about my
collection and Japan. I had been so reclusive for so long it was very difficult to open up to a new person. I really tried to break through that icy barrier of acquaintanceship into friendship but the language barrier was too strong. I wondered if there was some better way to do it, something I was missing that would make it easier to make a new friend. I supposed I needed more practice. Nao shocked me by inviting me to Japan when she left, telling me I could stay for a long time and she would show me her country. I knew it would be awkward, but a true otaku would never pass up a chance to see Japan.
I handed over a bag full of Rugrats things I brought from the States for Nao. It is traditional to give gifts when you visit anyone in Japan, so I brought her everything I could get my hands on. She was enthralled by a doll set of Tommy and his parents and proudly ran down the stairs to show her parents. I wandered over to her corner bookshelf. It was filled with young adult manga.
"Ah, you found manga," Nao said, breathless from her quick trip up and down the stairs. "You read all of these. This is 'Heart In.' It is my favorite. You read it."
"Heart In" was covered with a lavish drawing of pink- and purple-haired fairy girls, surrounded by sakura blossoms and clothed in gauzy dresses. Just my style. I wished I could read it, but knew my meager Japanese skills would never cover the entire book, especially if it was written in the complex characters used in adult books.
"I will look at the pictures," I told her.
She showed me how to use her air conditioner, which was an antique by my standards, and explained I needed to use it as little as possible because of electricity costs. I wondered if I could offer her parents money just to leave it on. I didn't know if I would survive in this hot room without air. She also showed me her mini-refrigerator and television set, and gave me a sobakawa buckwheat pillow.
"I will be staying in my sister Masami's room. You can go to sleep now because we go to English school tomorrow. Good night," she said, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
I was disappointed Nao would not be staying with me. I may not have had a lot of friends, but from the few I did have, I knew one of the best ways to get to know a person is by staying up late at night talking. I suppose they wanted to give me my privacy. I sank into bed, exhausted but sleepless because of the thick, humid air and a pillow that cocked my head at a ninety-degree angle. I lay awake for a while, listening to the sounds of a Japanese wind chime that hung from Nao's open window. A tag reading youkoso, welcome, dangled beneath it, swaying in the breeze. I breathed deeply, hoping to smell something different in the Japanese air. I thought I detected a faint, fishy smell, but that may have been coming from the kitchen.
In the morning, there was an email waiting for me on Nao's computer. It was from my father. It read, "Jane, have you found any animation cels yet. How much did you pay for them. Dad." Not very sentimental, but I smiled anyway. He always backed me up when my mother would scold me for the clutter in my room. He pretended to be on her side, but secretly encouraged me, searching out good deals on the Internet and sniping auctions when I wasn't home. We had an odd relationship, though. We would sometimes spend hours together surfing the Web and putting some of his antiques up for auction; sometimes we would avoid each other for days at a time. He and I were so alike in our personalities that I didn't wonder anymore why we were this way. Since I was about fourteen, I had begun to experience this cycle, intense like and desire to be with a person, then a feeling of just being sick of them and having to take a break. I supposed he experienced just the same thing. When I was young, he would disappear for days at a time. We always knew where he was going, of course, but he just couldn't stand being cooped up with two people constantly. When I was four and five I wondered what his problem was, but now I know. I am just thankful that his cycle of like and dislike for collections does not completely transfer over to people; he always comes back to liking us.
Only the fear of being lost in a foreign country kept me chasing after Nao on our way to English class. I had never had to run so fast. Nao darted from place to place, occasionally stopping to pull me along. I couldn't remember having been so hot, although the thermometer only read 27°C. We boarded a train at the famous Hankyuu Station. The ride was awkward and silent. Nao had lost a lot of English since she had come back to Japan, so even when I did have something to say, the response was a helpless look. I amused myself by reading all the mangled English phrases I could find. On a passenger's shopping bag: "I find puppies and kitchens quite rewarding." On a billboard we passed: "Karaoke, the sing for an every nights." I also started to notice some of the outrageous fashions people wore, like a dressy, ruffled skirt over ripped khakis, hair color on top of hair color on top of hair color, and the tendency of Japanese women to cram their feet into the smallest shoe size possible.
An hour and a half after we left Nao's house, we arrived in what Nao called "the country." The houses were separated by rice fields, but no farther apart than my house was to the neighbor's in my city. I noticed construction under way in a small space between buildings I judged to be no larger than twelve feet. What did Nao think when she visited Michigan and saw our open spaces and fields full of grass, corn, and cows? I had not seen one patch of grass since I'd been here, and the only animals I'd seen were a few pet dogs-not even a squirrel.
The English school was held in a room above the Kawai School of Piano. I was introduced to Miki, Yuka, Midori, and her teacher, Keiko-sensei. The students hung back, whispering in Japanese. I hoped I didn't hear what I thought I heard: the word gaijin, a derogatory word for foreigner. Keiko-sensei, in a move uncharacteristic for a Japanese person, stepped forward boldly and offered me her hand.
"I'm Hino Keiko. I mean, to you, I'm Keiko Hino. Nice to meet you. Here is my business card," she said eagerly, handing me a business card with one hand. I tried to remember what was appropriate in this situation, deciding to give a little bow and accept the card with both hands. Keiko's speech was difficult for me to understand. Later I found that she had learned English in Great Britain, giving her a sort of Japanese-British accent.
Yuka giggled and pointed to my feet. By Japan's standards, my shoes were not that strange. I checked my soles, but couldn't figure out what the problem could be.
"Jane," Keiko-sensei said. "You should take off your shoes indoors."
My face turned a tomato-shade of red. I hadn't even thought to remove my shoes, though I didn't see what difference it made to the already-soiled carpet. After removing my shoes and donning a pair of the school's slippers, I joined their little circle on the carpet.
I was surprised at the tiny amount of English they spoke during our first hour there. I thought that a class full of English students would make a point of speaking English to an American. Instead, they spoke English only when prompted by Keiko-sensei. Keiko-sensei pretended to keep the class under control, but as I watched her, I started to think she was more interested in being their friend than their teacher. She spoke just as little English as they did throughout the hour. I didn't know what she was saying, but she had a smile on her face most of the time. I wished I knew what they were talking about, but something made me think that even if I did, I might not join their conversation anyway.
"Do you like my hair?" Finally, Yuka spoke to me in English. Her hair was twisted into the Japanese equivalent of dreadlocks. I nodded, although I wasn't really sure. She was apparently the most fashion conscious of the group. She was wearing glittering white eye shadow, a shade I'd never seen at home, a calico skirt in shades of brown, and a powder blue shirt. To me, the outfit was completely mismatched, but something about the way she wore it told me that she was in style. She nearly attacked me when I refreshed my Sugar Plum lip gloss, sniffing it and passing it around to the other girls.
Miki seemed to be the class clown. She was dressed in a pair of khakis with a sparkling floral overskirt and a T-shirt that read "Jerry Garcia Loves You." She was the student with the most English trouble, but the one of the group trying the hardest to talk to me. She sat as close to me as she could and loudly declared I was "cuuuuute-O." I thought it was somewhat odd that another girl would call me cute, but I just accepted it as some sort of weird culture difference. At one point, she couldn't think of the right English word to say and launched into a mock strip tease with her overskirt. I thought it was funny, but all the other girls moaned and rolled their eyes. My laughter egged Miki on, making the show last fifteen minutes. "I want make you laugh," she managed.
Midori was the quietest, but when she spoke to me, I noticed she hardly had an accent. She thought very hard about a question to ask me, and finally said, "Do you like Macudonarudo?"
"Macu…do…" I repeated, not understanding what she had asked.
"McDonald's is how you say it," Nao said. "We call it Macudo in Osaka, but people in Tokyo call it 'Macu.'" Osaka was famous for its unusual accent, sometimes thought of as the "hick" accent of Japan. Comedians came from all over the country to train in Osaka-ben dialect. Even the smallest variation in language, like the difference between "Macudo" and "Macu" meant a lot to Osakans.
The girls had prepared a feast of sorts for my arrival. They had every Japanese junk food item they could afford—chocolate coated graham trees; Pocky, the strawberry-dipped wheat cracker; and Pucca, chocolate-filled fish crackers. I was hesitant to try any of them because of a tooth that throbbed at the mere sight of chocolate, but they insisted. I was surprised at the light sweetness of their candy snacks. It launched us into a discussion about American cake frosting, which they all detested.
"Too sweet," the girls chimed in unison.
My favorite of all the food was Pretz, tomato-flavored cracker sticks. They also passed around fishy-smelling crackers covered in nori. They urged me to try one, insisting they were delicious. I peeled the nori back and took a nibble, but discarded the rest when I learned they were made from shrimp eyes.
At noon, Keiko-sensei announced it was time for lunch and shopping. The class walked for what seemed like hours to a train station and boarded a train bound for Kyoto. This time the ride was not silent. The class, including Keiko-sensei, jabbered away in Japanese. I found myself searching out those bits of English for something to do. I was used to being left out of conversations, either purposely or not. It was odd for me not to be able to listen in, though. I kept my ears peeled for any tidbit of conversation I might understand, but couldn't seem to find one.
Our first stop was Mandarake, a store that carried more anime merchandise than I'd ever seen in my life. Every employee was dressed in anime costume. The class milled indifferently through the stacks of used manga, but I was ecstatic. I snapped pictures of everything in sight—a karaoke stage where a costume-clad girl was singing an anime theme song, glass cases overflowing with dolls and model kits costing anywhere between 7,000 and 100,000 yen, bins overflowing with gatcha gatcha vending machine prizes, and stacks of anime cels, amazingly cheap at 500 to 2,000 yen. I sorted through them, choosing the ones with the most interesting colors and faces for my father. He had been reading up on cels lately and I knew he would be expecting ones with open eyes and nice smiles, the most desirable to collectors.
"You spend too much again," Nao admonished me as I checked out. I was buying 10000 yen worth of manga, magazines, cels, and a Belldandy doll I had never seen before. I shrugged and smiled. I had been saving for a year, abstaining from any anime purchase that wasn't absolutely necessary. I tried to hand my Visa card to the clerk, but he wouldn't take it. I looked to Nao for help.
"You have to put it on tray there," she said. A little green tray sat on the counter in front of the clerk.
"Why?" I asked. I put the card on the tray and the clerk whisked it away to be scanned.
Nao didn't have an answer. "Maybe Japanese tradition," she said, and that was the end of our conversation. I wondered what sort of things Nao had noticed and wondered about when she was in the United States. I wanted to ask her about it, but didn't. I wished I would have just spoken up, said something, asked an interesting question…but couldn't understand why I just couldn't.
We ate lunch at an Indian restaurant, specially chosen for my vegetarian eating habits. I had worried for months before the trip that I wouldn't be able to tell the people I was with that I was a vegetarian. I memorized a particularly difficult phrase, "saishokusha desu:" I am a vegetarian. Later I was told that many Japanese people were vegetarians because of their Buddhist beliefs. I breathed a sigh of relief that I would not have to explain myself. My reasons for being a vegetarian were complicated. People in the States didn't understand my choice; how could I possibly explain it to these girls who barely spoke English? My classmates had always had questions when I ate my spinach soup or gingerly picked pepperoni off my slice of pizza. My answer was always, "I don't eat meat because I love animals," but that was not entirely true. I had overheard so many conversations between my peers about the farms they lived on and how poorly their livestock was treated. If supposedly good, Christian people raised animals in such a haphazard way, who could say the hamburger I was eating was raised any differently? And, of course, it made me even more different than just the black clothing, leaving everyone, including myself, to wonder: was I excluded by others, or was I excluding myself?
We shared plates of curry pan and curry rice. Nao finished everyone's plates for them. After lunch, we shopped in a maze of covered streets, passing pachinko halls and 100 yen stores, breezing through clothing and makeup shops, and spending at least an hour in a large store full of Chinese gifts. Near seven o'clock, we boarded a train, which I thought was headed back to the Kawai school building. Unfortunately for my out-of-shape body, we stopped in a smaller city between Kyoto and Osaka. The class announced that they had been planning a surprise for weeks. They began to walk, and I huffed and puffed far behind them.
"Where's Miki?" I asked, noticing that she had disappeared from the group.
"She lives near here," Keiko-sensei replied. "She will be back."
Miki was back in about five minutes, weaving her way through traffic on a bright blue motorized scooter. "You can ride?" she asked me, patting the seat behind her. I looked to the others, not sure if I should accept.
"We will meet you there," Keiko-sensei said, waving me on.
We breezed through a residential area, which, oddly enough, had a beer machine on nearly every corner. I was thankful I had accepted the ride, because we did not stop for about fifteen minutes. We arrived in a Shinto shrine, a quiet, woodsy place the Japanese went to worship their ancestors. A low hedge surrounded its orange-roofed buildings. It was dark, and Miki plopped herself on the sidewalk near the entrance. I wandered around, examining the shrine buildings. The bright gold incense altar caught my eye. I walked toward it, but Miki called me back.
"You wash hands first," she said, and pointed to a large stone lotus bud. "Fountain no water."
I asked her about the trees, which were covered in tiny folded papers, but she did not have the words to answer. When my curiosity about the shrine grounds was satisfied, I took a seat next to Miki on the ground. I usually felt so awkward sitting in silence with another person, especially another person I had just met. For some reason I felt nothing but peace tonight, and comfort. Miki turned to me every few minutes and smiled, having as little to say as I did, but just as comfortable. We watched the moon. I hoped to see the Japanese Rabbit-in-the-Moon, but just like the man in the moon on my side of the world, I never saw it.
A group of shouting girls interrupted our peace. It was Yuka, Nao, and Midori, arms full of something colorful.
"This is hanabi," Keiko-sensei explained as the girls began to set up. "I think you call it fireworks. Can you do this in America?" I examined the fireworks the girls had dumped on the ground. Bottle rockets, parachutes, roman candles.
"Not this kind," I replied. "Are you sure we can do this here?" It seemed almost sacrilegious to me, like setting off fireworks in a graveyard.
Keiko-sensei nodded, seeming surprised I even asked the question. Flowers of blazing light burst into the sky, casting red, green, and golden lights over the shrine grounds. I smiled smugly with the irrational thought that isolation hadn't stopped me yet; as a matter of fact, I'd gotten farther than any of those despised classmates back home would ever go. I laughed and clapped right along with the people I knew were going to be my new friends.