Reflections on Japan
Hiroshima 1986
Stepping away from surfing, going to Japan. To meet a girl that I had seen on a couch a year earlier. The thing is, we had written postcards to stay in touch for some reason. When I met her she was basically despondent over my roomate. Like me, he also had little money and I am sure, although we never discussed it, that the last thing he wanted was a girlfriend. She had left Hawaii and after arriving back at her family home in Hiroshima, promptly left to go work in Sydney, Australia. Now she was back in Hiroshima, working for a flower importer.
Florida was not for me. After arriving and settling in with my parents who I had not seen in three years, I decided that I would save money and bail asap. Soon, I would be regularly awakened by a phone call from Japan. A quiet, kind voice would greet me and wish me a good morning. Then we would listen to each other breathe before saying goodbye. It was difficult to find something we could talk about. But she invited me to come to Hiroshima and sent me a picture of her that I found myself staring at quite often. In it, she was dressed conservatively in a horizontal blue and white striped dress. She had nice legs, a shapely body and I remembered how beautiful she was when I first saw her. Although our phone conversations were strained, I decided to go see her. Again, like so many other times, with very little money. Midori’s father was impressed that I wanted to come see her even with no money, so I was offered a job painting their apartment. That was all I needed to hear to go.
Arriving in Tokyo felt like one of the 1960’s Star Trek episodes where the Starship Enterprise crew land on Earth, but things are drastically and eerily different. A politeness overload. People bowing, seemingly uncontrollably, over and over, is something my western mind fought to comprehend. The airport seemingly filled with human versions of chickens pecking for food. Japan is the land of subtle levels of respect that must be acknowledged and honored. A place where status is obvious and reinforced. The foreigner trods toadlike through this realm of respect. Like an idiot child. I learned later that you are reinforced as a foreign idiot in the way the Japanese will offer seemingly polite comments about their observations about things like your excellent use of chopsticks.
I saw her right away from the glass corridor towards the customs entry point. She stood out from the crowd in a fantastic pink dress, pressed and impressive. A class act. The fact that we had met only briefly when she was sitting on a couch back in Hawaii and what we knew about each other came only through the small writing space allowed on a postcard and the awkward morning calls which was spent mostly listening to each other breathe made the initial greeting interesting. I gave her a hug. The first lesson in Japan. Public displays of affection were a big no - no. Midori showed her rebellious spirit right away and hugged me without reservation.
Japanese are world famous as hosts who will go to whatever it takes to make sure that their guests feel god like. They have a saying “The customer is god” and wherever you go or who you are with will make it seem this way. Midori had organized first class seats on the Shinkansen (Bullet Train) from Tokyo to Hiroshima. Again, the overwhelming politeness of everything had me feeling like a complete slob. There was no way I was going to get it. But I tried.
Along the ride, flashing dark tiled roof houses mingled out of the train window with plain, industrious buildings surrounded everywhere by growing gardens and rice fields. The names famously announced in Japanese and English over the Shinkansen speaker in an over the top, gracious female voice of automation with little bell sound bytes- “Shin Osaka de gozaimasu.” Next, “Shin Kobe de gozaimasu.” “Shin Kyoto de gozaimasu.” “Shin Hiroshima de gozaimasu.” All the while, the entire train was pin drop quiet. The respect for peace. Except for every so often, the door at either end would “whoosh” open, again like Star Trek, and an immaculately dressed young lady would do a deep bow to the passengers and announce the items neatly organized on her little push trolley. Beers, coffee, bento box lunches, teas, candies, chips and other things I did not recognize.
Arriving with Midori, I was greeted in the most respectful and friendly way by her family - none of whom spoke more than a few words of english. Yet, I was put at ease by their incredible, wonderful regard for my comfort. Mom a constantly moving energy while Pop, the mellow man of few words and many nods of his head. Toru, Midori’s older brother, was the center of the conversations and I could see that he was making every attempt to be entertaining with lots of laughter. I noticed none of them had hugged at the train station.
We got closer to their home while driving together, Midori and me talking in english the entire time while she began what would turn out to be many years of translating for us all. I grew nervous about respect and the rules that I was sure were being broken by the minute by the gaijin (foreigner). Not wearing shoes in houses I was aware of from living in Hawaii where that Japanese tradition had been passed on to everyone. But entering the small apartment where I was introduced to Toru’s wife Nanako and their young children, Hitoshi and Sayaka, it was apparent this was about to get interesting. Asking to use the toilets, I was immediately confused and worried about totally screwing that up. The first time I had seen a toilet seat that looked like you could fly it with buttons to push, all labeled in kanji - トイレ, ボタン. How do you even begin to try to read that? Next to the toilet room was a glass door that was opened into a small tile covered showering room. There was a small plastic stool and the shower head was OUTSIDE of the bath tub. The tub was about three feet long and close to that high, 100% fiberglass. Total foreignness. I was nervous and did not need to be. At the table, I was informed that they had an apartment down a few floors for me. Complete with my name on the door. But I soon learned that everyone takes a bath using the same water, the reason for the shower outside of the tub. The body gets cleaned before the soak. Japanese are hard core bath takers, as in one every day. A time for peace in a country full of people wherever you go.
The meal time rituals were my favorite. Just an overwhelming variety of food items that I had never even imagined, each delicious and presented to the table on small individual serving dishes rather that the one huge plate I was used to back home. Humongous Sapporo beer bottles were brought out glistening with condensation as each previous one was emptied. Toru kept graciously filling my sake cup and before I could embarrass myself, Midori pre empted that nightmare by education. If you drain your cup or glass, it is rude for the host to leave it empty. A lack of graciousness on their part. Even then, Toru would refill it until I just decided to leave it full.
One of the most obvious dining table rituals that I saw was that everyone would briefly put their hands together like a prayer and say some words, the exact same phrase that I later learned was “ itadakimasu.” Again, the respect required to show appreciation for the meal and those that contributed to it. No long prayers that go on and on. Just a quick hands together and a joyful “itadakimasu.” So nice. I started in on that right away. Everyone was pretending to be impressed with my new word in order for me to feel god like. Slightly more difficult was whatever it was that they all would say in the exact phrase after finishing their meal. For some reason, this one gave me pause and I figured I would wait until I could hear it better. I probably should have asked Midori about it. No, I definitely should have asked Midori about it.
The next meal time, everyone was comfortable now around me and just enjoying themselves while having a gaijin to visit Midori. I could say the atmosphere was party-like with everyone there at the table and. at one end, the television showing some insane Japanese game show. Totally hilarious, off the wall level of competition that would have been illegal in the states. We all did our “itadakimasu”, I was complimented once again on my rapidly growing vocabulary in Japanese as well as the incredible skill that I possessed with the deft use of chopsticks on white rice. I knew which button to push now to get the toilet to flush and how the bath time worked for everyone- the men first, then kids, then women. When Toru attempted to fill my sake or beer, I politely covered my glass and nodded while saying that I was happy. Things were looking good. The meal time wound down and around the table everyone said the required end of eating phrase. I saw Popa-san and Toru-san glance my way, the look of wonder and anticipation in their fleeting lock of eyes with mine.
Fueled by the confidence of alcohol and the wonderfully accepting, friendly people that I was now with, I put my head up proudly. Over emphasizing the happy, satified shake of my head with how incredible the entire meal experience had been, I repeated what I had heard - “Ahhhh”(patting my full belly) “Onikaga O pai!” Smiling and looking toward each end of the table, ready to accept the compliments and accolades once again for my conquest of Japanese culture. Every laugh stifled into total silence immediately, including the children, the only sound the blaring laughter from the television show. Eyes flitted to the walls, heads dipped to look at laps. A death-like quiet filled the room. I continued to look and wait for my positive appraisals to start flowing. Toru- san was the first to speak, saying something seriously to Midori. It seemed like there was a spotlight on me now. A cardboard billboard of embarrassment. The face of contortion that indicates the confusion behind it. I politely excused myself to go to my apartment because I was “tired.” It was eight o’clock at night and there had been a party going on five minutes earlier.
Sweet Midori soon knocked softly at my door while I considered homelessness in Hiroshima. Showing no emotion, she waited until I asked. “What went wrong up there?”She took a breath, “Well, Japanese is a language with subtle pronunciations that sometimes can take a while to learn. Just to read the newspaper, a Japanese person must learn over 2500 characters.” “How does that apply to whatever I did? Everyone acted so weird after I said “onikaga o pai.” “Mark, the correct pronunciation is “onikaga ipai” which means my stomach is full. A polite way to say that you enjoy the effort of the host or cooks.” “Pretty sure I said that.” I was most positive that was exactly what I had said. Again, I should have asked. “ What you said was oinkaga O pai.” She was sweetly and calmly explaining. “Yeah.” The difference was lost on me. “What does that mean?” Smiling slowly and looking away, I could see she was embarrassed. Modest. “Uh, well, Mark, you told everyone that your stomach was full of boobs.” “BOOBS!” “Yes, boobs. Opai means boobs. I pai means full.” It was difficult to imagine seeing any of them again. Midori laughed, “my brother said to me “What are you teaching him?” This story became a favorite to rehash over and over again between all of us. It never seemed to not be funny. We had bonded over boobs and an honest mistake at an attempt at politeness. The most Japanese of human qualities. I would always be forgiven and encouraged.
Hiroshima is considered a country town. The people speak a dialect of Japanese and, while there, I saw very few other gaijin when I would ride bicycles around or we would go anywhere. The bookstores were full of young men ogling naked girls in the magazine section for free, the market had humpback whale steaks and 50 dollar cantaloupe melons, elevators at the department store had immaculately dressed girls pushing the buttons in white gloves while announcing the arriving floor number, kids would routinely cry and hang onto their mothers legs when I would pass and I was treated to unimaginable kindness from a family that I was soon to call mine. In over 40 years traveling back to see them, that first time was the most memorable. The looks we would get when I went to a job site with Poppa -san, both of us wearing jackets printed with his business name across the back or driving around town with Momma-san to help her with loading cigarettes into vending machines she kept on the bottom floors of business buildings. Total opposites in every way. That time when we learned and grew to love each other.
Loved this. As usual - smiling all the way.
Mark, I enjoyed this story very much, especially getting to know more of your life outside of surfing. I considered how grateful I am that we lived in a time when we needed little, but we stretched ourselves with experiences and travel. What if you had not given in to your natural curiosity and avoided the travel to Hiroshima? Instead you threw caution to the wind, delaying a foundational start in a career, to satisfy your interest in Midori. Loved it!