360 Degrees Longitude (27 page)

Visiting places where we have such fond memories was even infectious for the kids, who were as enthusiastic to walk by where we used to buy groceries as September and I were.

“There it is guys. Groceries. American groceries. You can get almost anything you want in there.” We were in front of Kinokuniya, which specialized in imported foods. “I'll buy you Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and if you're extra good, I'll get some peanut butter.” Which was a lie and they knew it. Peanut butter just isn't available to the general population outside the United States and we were going to get a jar no matter how good or bad the kids might be.

We entertained ourselves by perusing the aisles of Kinokuniya for a bit. The look and feel of English words is exotic to the Japanese, so many things are spelled out in Jinglish. Where else can you find “Tissues of Kittens” (a box of tissues with kittens pictured on the front) or “Glutinous Starchy Substance” (corn syrup)? Even though I don't consider it food, we picked up a few boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese along with our “Paste Essence of Peanut.”

One morning, we started near the apartment where we had once lived and walked past the Daibutsu (the Great Buddha) then continued up into the hills above Kamakura to a shrine called Zeniarai Benten. A sign near the entry proclaims that in a year of the serpent (1185) a Shogun had a dream of the location of a spring and that he should find the spring and build a shrine there. Access to the shrine is through an opening dug into the side of a mountain, but after a short distance, the walkway opens up into a courtyard with blue sky above. A steady stream of people from all over Japan come to the Zeniarai Benten shrine to wash their money in the spring that flows from the side of the mountain. The practice is said to bring good luck.

The courtyard was bustling during our visit with people drying their newly washed bills and coins over burning incense. We had good luck the day we visited:

 

John's Journal, November 17

Since discarding her crutches, Katrina has walked with a severe limp, but week by week, her stride has improved. I decided that I would classify her as “completely healed” when I saw her run spontaneously just for the fun of it. That finally happened today, eighteen weeks after her accident. She was running down a steep hill from Zeniarai Benten shrine. She still has a wee bit of a limp, but if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't notice it
.

Of course, we sent our bikes home before we left Switzerland in mid-September. Now in mid-November, Katrina had just passed my litmus test for returning to cycling. We discussed sending for our bikes a few times, but there was always some reason why we couldn't do it “this month.” Over the remaining months, it just never happened.

I love Japan and almost everything about it—the people, the culture, the wonderfully weird mannerisms, and especially the gadgets. But I can do without the food. I mean, come on. Who eats fish and rice for breakfast?

Through our travels we had hopes that the kids would learn to expand their diet of plain pasta for dinner and toasted waffles for breakfast. Katrina had come a long way in trying new and different foods, but Japan would be a test. More than anything else I had been looking forward to introducing squid and corn pizza to Jordan. However, in a not-so-subtle way, September let me know I was a wimp when it came to eating beyond
my
comfort zone.

After leaving the Zeniarai Benten shrine, it was time to rustle up some grub. “I remember a McDonald's near the end of the pier that leads out to Enoshima Island,” I said.

September patted me on the hand. “We're going to be here for two weeks. You are going to have to face the fact that eventually, you will have to eat Japanese food.”

I thought of George Bush senior making the excuse that he was president of the United States and shouldn't have to eat broccoli if he didn't want to. Then I recalled the image of the same George Bush puking and passing out in the lap of Japanese Prime Minister Kiichi Miyazawa. “If I puke in some sushi restaurant,” I said, “it'll be on your conscience.”

“I'll sleep soundly,” September replied.

Enoshima Island is just a few hundred yards off the mainland, connected by a pier. We walked right past the aforementioned McDonald's and onto the island in search of lunch. I remembered the vendors along the main walkway on the island selling what the fishermen had caught that very morning. We would find lunch, but it would squiggle, of that I was certain. As we ambled along, Katrina noted one sidewalk vendor making what looked liked thin, crispy waffles. Mmm. Lunch!

We watched the woman pour batter onto a griddle and then tightly close a lid, cooking the waffle. But I knew that a plain waffle in Japan was too good to be true; there would be a surprise inside. In retribution for inflicting years of plain pasta for dinner on me, I thought the kids deserved a surprise in their lunch. I pointed to the waffles and said, “Why don't we get waffles for lunch?”

Unfortunately, Katrina was paying too much attention. “She put something inside,” she said.

“Probably apple filling or something else yummy.”

Katrina moved a little closer and to her horror, saw the woman place a little squiggling octopus in the middle of the griddle, pressing it flat with the lid and cooking it into the waffle.

The kids weren't interested in waffles anymore.

Katrina started talking fast and excitedly about how she wanted to rescue those little octopuses. This was more or less expected, since we've known that we've had a Greenpeace recruit in the making since she was about two. I still envision her as a young woman in her twenties in a rubber dinghy trying to cut off the path of a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.

I tried to sneak off but September was on to me. “I know what you're trying to do, but you're going to eat with us. Into this tempura shop you go.”

Tempura is usually pretty safe for the American palate; it's simply prawns or vegetables dipped in batter and fried, then served on a bed of rice. The shop had a picture menu, and when we ordered the food we pointed to the four dishes that looked the most innocent.

When we got our rice, Katrina started to inspect it closely, wanting to avoid any surprises. Being a quick learner can be a handicap.

“Katrina,” I said, “you know that inspecting your food too closely is never a good idea.”

Katrina reminded me of the first time I ever told her that and then summed up, “… so every time I hear you say that, it sort of grosses me out.”

September had been on a business trip and I hadn't been to the grocery store in ages. The refrigerator was nearly empty, so I told the kids to go out to the garden and pick some broccoli. Later, when the broccoli was on their plates, Katrina said, “Didn't you wash this? It's covered with aphids!”

I replied, “Oh, you're exaggerating. Any vegetable is bound to have some tiny bug on it. It's cooked. Pick the aphid off and eat the broccoli. You should never examine your food too closely; otherwise, you wouldn't ever eat anything.”

Problem was, the broccoli was
covered
with the critters. I found myself forcing a smile because I had already eaten a big plate of it. That's how I earned my reputation of “eat first and ask questions later.”

Now in the tempura shop, Katrina was examining each individual rice kernel in her bowl.

“Eewww! Some of these rice kernels look like tiny fish! I am not eating this!”

“For heaven's sake, Katrina, they're just bean sprouts. They won't kill you. Starving children in China would be happy to have that.”

“Since when do bean sprouts have eyes?”

“They are not eyes! It is a bean sprout, and that is the seed.”

“I am not eating it!”

“Fine. Pick out the bean sprouts. I'll eat them.”

With that, I ate a couple of bean sprouts to prove my point. They were too little to taste like anything. As the meal progressed, Katrina started to assign imaginary fish parts to her bean sprouts. She could see fins and a mouth and a spine through each transparent little body.

“Give me a break!” I finally said. “Show me the gills!”

So she did. I took the tiny bean sprout and with my 45-year-old eyes tried to focus on it. “No eyes, no tail, no gills. Bean sprout.”

“It is a fish!” she persisted. “You need your reading glasses!”

Ahem. I reached for my glasses and sought out the best light. To my surprise, I found I was holding a tiny, narrow fish, no more than a quarter of an inch long.

Youth triumphs over experience. This was a new concept for me, and I wasn't too keen on it. Katrina made note of future “I told you so” rights.

As an island nation, it's logical that the dietary staples in Japan come from the sea. In the twenty-first century other options than getting breakfast off a hook are available, but the Japanese culture is arguably more steeped in time-honored tradition than many others. The British might argue otherwise, but how many British teenagers have you seen bowing while speaking on a cell phone? Anyhow, I suspect tradition is a big reason why fish consumption remains high, as it couldn't be because of taste.

But, the times they are a-changin'. We found a Baskin-Robbins and Mister Donut at nearly every train station. That certainly wasn't the case twelve years ago.

• • •

“Japanese society,” I explained, as we were checking into a traditional Japanese inn, “lives by a complex set of time-honored customs, and everyone we meet will be courteous to a fault. As a
gaijin
(foreigner) we don't stand a chance of ever learning what is expected and all of the rules that govern society. Luckily, we're given a lot of slack and we're more or less expected to use the wrong fork with our dinner salad. It provides them with a lot of entertainment.”

“Dad, Japanese don't use forks,” Jordan countered.

“It's just an example.”

“I didn't know you were supposed to use a special fork for eating salad,” Katrina added. “How is it different from a normal fork?”

“I could never figure that one out,” I said, “but you're missing my point—there are really only two things you must never do in Japan: no footwear on the tatami mats and no soap in the bathtub. It's well known that shoes are not allowed in the house and that once inside, you wear slippers. What is less well known is that the slippers must not be worn inside a room whose floor is covered with a tatami mat. Tatami mats are worthy of bare toes or stockinged feet only.”

Unfortunately, the thrill of huffing four overstuffed suitcases up two flights of stairs in our traditional-style inn left my sense of recollection in a bit of a fog.

“Please,”
our host said firmly, “do not wear slippers on the tatami mats.”

Oops. Fatal etiquette rule number one had gone “poof.”

After accidentally wearing my slippers on the tatami mats, I had earned the privilege of getting a tutorial on Japanese etiquette at every turn, as I constantly found our host at my elbow.

“Have you seen Hosono-san?” I asked September when she returned to our room.

“No, why?”

“He's been following me around. Now that I'm off to take a bath, the last thing I want is for him to follow me in.”

I slipped quietly into the hallway, but Hosono-san had his radar locked onto me. He followed me into the bathing room to give me instructions on the proper procedures. The Japanese are obsessed with the bathing experience.

“The traditional Japanese bath,” Hosono-san explained, “is preceded by first soaping yourself up outside of the bathtub. Then you must rinse off completely by taking this bucket and pouring it over you.”

I knew all this, but smiled appreciatively while simultaneously suppressing the urge to drop my towel and crack it locker-room style to get rid of him.

“Only when all the soap has been rinsed away are you to get into the bath. No soap is allowed in the
o-furo.”

The reason for this process is that the water in the tub is shared by the entire family, or if you are at a Japanese inn, by everyone in the inn. This method ensures that the water stays clean. Or at least it doesn't get revolting.

To facilitate the bathing ritual, the bathing area is much different than it is in the United States. Every bathroom has a drain in the floor so you can pour buckets of water over yourself as you rinse yourself free of soap. A modern Japanese house may have a shower right in the middle of the room, but there is no dedicated stall. The bathtub itself is off in a corner, usually with a cover over it so the water stays warm and nothing nasty, like soap residue, makes it in.