Perhaps with a twinge of arrogance, I proclaim myself King of Metaphors. If you know me, then you know this. I speak in metaphors. I think in metaphors. Heck, my favorite episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation is “Darmok†– Shaka, When the Walls Fell. At no other time am I more euphoric about metaphors than when I travel. In Tokyo…
- Vending machines are like Starbucks – able to account for infinite variables of consumer choice – only you better know what you want and ask for it in the right order.
- Gas Stations are sleepy caverns where gas dispensers hang from above like timeless stalactites occasionally sweating off a tiny droplet to the ground below.
- Trains are a bloodstream carrying the red, the white, the blue, the sick and the healthy, the local and the foreign, to a rightful destination. Shinjuku – is the heart that keeps it all in synch.
- The Japanese bathing experience is a moment of serene prayer when you’ve released the hurts and frustrations in favor of things that really matter.
But now I’m stumped. I’m standing urgently before bathroom doors in an upscale restaurant. Door with black stripe, door with red stripe. Black stripe. Red stripe. One a faux pas. The other a coup de grâce. Really, it’s not the potential mistake I’m worried about. Have I been out-metaphored?What. Could. This. Possibly. Mean? Perhaps a foregone conclusion – black is for men. But could something greater be at work here? What if Japanese culture places a different value on these colors? I’ve seen flower and rock, I’ve seen cat and dog, I’ve even seen sun and moon. Black stripe. Red stripe. One a faux pas. The other a coup de grâce…
Watching Japanese game shows, I get a bright idea. What if someone made a TV show with two guys in suits sitting on their knees playing “Go� Okay, so it wouldn’t last a whole hour, but what if you add a segment halfway through in which you put the board up on the screen and have Tom Brokaw and Cokie Roberts analyze each and every move? Repeatedly. Scratch that – use Hillary Clinton and Carrot Top. Ratings are key. Each time you steal a chip from your opponent they would have to eat the intestines of a duck embryo while hanging naked from a spinning construction crane over the wintry Potomac. That wouldn’t work, the Potomac isn’t wintry year-round. But I’m asleep before the idea gets any worse.
Words in Japan are, somehow, inexplicably, both meaningless and priceless. English words, that is. A land where “White†is a red hair dye. “Pocari Sweat†is a refreshing drink. “Reserve Water†– get this – actually “Goes with many dishesâ€. Hey Levi’s, eat your heart out, coffee beans can be “stone washed†too. “Coupling Fruitâ€, a dual-flavor fruit drink, is just too thought-provoking. Isn’t fruit just a swollen ovary?
My first day here, my hosts asked me if I wanted sushi. I acknowledged I’d like to try some. And, a few nights ago, I had conquered the sushi ghost. I was quite relieved that was over. But now I have that dark, tingly feeling of fear, like when you know “something is wrong†but you don’t know what it is. We’re entering a restaurant. We’re taking off our shoes. We’re sitting. It turns out tonight is Sushi Night.
Plate 1:Sushi. I ask, but my 5 Japanese companions don’t know what it is. That can’t be good. It’s in a bowl, dusted with yellow powder. It looks like tiny strips of raw beef tenderloin. We eat. Everyone is looking at me. I nod, smile, chew, nod, smile chew. “Mmmmmmmm!†Says the American. “Ahhhhhhh!†say the Japanese. I’m proud of myself.
The wait staff see the American, and suddenly I’m a hit. “Let the American chap pick his sushi!†they seem to say - they bring a picture guide. 32 types of sushi. Some of these objects appear to actually still be moving when they took the picture. I point to the one with lots-and-lots of rice around it and cleverly say, “Mmmmmmm!†“Ohhhh†says the Japanese waiter, nodding and bidding his leave.
Plate 2:Sushi: Pictures-Shmictures. What the hey! I’m staring down 4 types of sushi. I decide to finish my Sapporo. My sushi plate reads like the names of ancient gods: Tekka Maki, the tuna roll goddess. Tai, the warlike red snapper god. Amaebi, the god of sweet shrimp (and conspicuously close to the word Ameoba). Hirame, the goddess of halibut. Folks, we have Sushi, Maki, Sashimi. The works.
I try for the mis-direction play. I engage everyone in lively conversation, taking my time. But at every turn, someone points to my plate and smiles. Watching the American eat his sushi is what this night is all about. I give in. Eating, chewing, swallowing, my hosts are watching every moment, gleaning anything from my every facial muscle. I sense the Oscars are within my reach because I manage my plate without hinting at the difficulty I’m having.
I should clarify: This stuff actually tastes really good. It’s pretty enjoyable. But the consistency is so diametrically opposed to my normal diet, I’m waging internal war over the gag reflex. Lots-o-wasabi helps. Your mind is violently shocked by the horseradish and momentarily relents from the one single message you’ve been getting: Gag, man, gag! In the name of all that’s right and good in this world, gag!
Plate 3: I’m starting to get the impression that they aren’t going to kill the fatted calf, cook it, and feed it to me. Because I’m staring at something rather surprising. It’s a 5-inch fish. Whole. The whole frickin’ fish. Head, tail, and everything in between. I had to ask, “Is this a joke on the American?†One of them understood and translated, we all laugh. But it’s back to business. This is the MO – Put it head-first in your mouth, chew and swallow, segment by segment, no stopping. Okay have you ever tried to do this with something as simple as a banana?
Plate 4:More sashimi. Maguro, tuna strips. Unagi, Sea eel. Sake, salmon. I manage everything but the salmon. I know how tough it will be and it’s the lengthy chewing that brings me to the vomit precipice with each dish. I’m starting to really feel green. No one offers more Sapporo.
Plate 5: I should tell you, being a disciplined guardian of my wholesome speech, I have never, out loud, uttered the words, “Oh My Godâ€. It came, without warning, when plate five arrived.
Ika, a slab of gooey, white squid. Ikura, a seaweed roll of Salmon roe, thousands of slimy little eggs, like eyeballs peering up at you. And Uni, a seaweed roll of Sea Urchin, which, and please forgive such a harsh comparison, it’s just that this is what came to mind, looked like my dog’s barf. It was light brown, leathery chunks, slimy, gristled. I decide firmly I’m not touching the Sea Urchin. But no sooner had I made this decision than one host tells me a tender story about his childhood in which he would walk the beaches with his father, picking up Sea Urchins, cracking them open, and eating them together while the distant sun set over the horizon. Everyone hmmms, sighs and nods in this tender moment of bonding over sushi. Pause. Rewind.
Flashback of my time in Kazakhstan – turning down horsemeat after we were told this was his father’s favorite horse. Yelling, hand gestures, more yelling. Stop. Fast Forward.
Unless an entire civilization’s demise stands upon my eating of Sea Urchin, it will never cross my lips again. Even then, it’ll have to be a civilization that’s been nice to me.
Hot, green tea washes it all down. And quite surprisingly, I feel just fine. I catalog how much raw seafood I just consumed and it’s really quite stunning.
When you get up from the table to visit the W.C. you have to put on the slippers provided at each table. Only, everyone shares the same slippers, so it’s a one-size-fits-all affair. Only it isn’t. I have my daddy’s feet. Or, as Michele describes it, Fred Flintstone feet. Or, as my sister describes it, Hobbit feet. My foot doesn’t quite fit into the sandals as they are built for the average, narrow Japanese foot. And these are nice, straw sandals. Until I split them, and hop back to the table on one foot. Here’s the American, hopping on one foot, carrying a broken sandal across the restaurant. Japanese people don’t usually laugh at strangers. I’m so glad to help break down cultural barriers.
Shinjuku is a massive train station. I’m walking through it, now my 5th day, suddenly realizing I haven’t entered or exited the station through the same door more than once. Two million people pass through this station every single day. In the Seattle area, you have to add in Everett, Tacoma and everything in between to come up with 3.5 million people. The station is like a small city. Regions of department stores, restaurants convenience stores litter the station’s underbelly. Two days ago I found this wonderful crepe shop and I’m trying to find it again. I spend 45 minutes wandering the station, looking in every nook and cranny. It’s a maze of unequaled proportions. I decide to retrace the steps I took two days ago - and I can only come up with one solution. I need to buy a ticket so I can walk through the gate for the Keio line. Only then will I truly be able to retrace my steps. I buy a ticket, trying hard to ignore the fact that I just paid 170 so I could look for pastries.
Dinner is a banana crème crepe, a small banana crème crepe, and a banana crème pie.
Now I’m dipping into the mini-bar for a snack. Watching the first episode of “Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place†for the 3rd time since I’ve been here. Outside my window, walk the tens of thousands of Japanese people I’ve passed by in just 5 days. Commuting here is a strange dichotomy of loneliness and intense exposure to people. Whether I’m painfully scrunched in a train, or herding along the alleys of the shopping districts, or standing in line to buy a snack on the way home – there is no communication between you and the throng around you. Don’t look at someone’s face, stay to the left, push your way ahead, don’t stop to look at signs, put the right coins in, slide your ticket in the slot, put your money on the counter – don’t hand it to them, never try to avoid an oncoming bike – they avoid you, never jaywalk, don’t say “thank you†when you’ve bought something, but always say “excuse me†when you need something. Tracking and archiving the cultural nuance of Tokyo living is mentally exhausting. And, doing this training with 5 people, via a translator, is far more difficult than I expected. And while they are wonderful people, who laugh with me, love to hear about life in America, and have warms hearts, they aren’t my people. I’m suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, homesick. Now I’m dipping into the mini-bar for a snack. Again.
