Obuse, Japan

Eggshells and Cherry Blossoms

An experiment in modern hunting and gathering in Japan

We stepped out of the train station onto the orderly streets of Tokyo. Between us, Jason, Cyrus and I were lugging five backpacks and three duffel bags. Bella followed behind, dragging the daypacks, and little Cruz tagged along behind her, vying for her attention. Jason flagged down a taxi on the first street corner and collapsed, exhausted, into the passenger seat. When he learned that a ride would cost more than we had spent on an entire week’s rent in Vietnam, he suddenly regained his strength, bounded out of the taxi, and cheerily informed us that we would be walking the two miles to our hostel.

“What better way to get our first taste of Japan?”

The children sighed as our taxi drove away. I, for one, could think of quite a few better ways, but I held my tongue and tightened my shoelaces.

As soon as Jason had plotted our route on the Tokyo map he had torn out of the airline magazine, we set off in the direction of our hostel. We zigzagged through a market full of spry youngsters in crisp uniforms who must have just poured out of a nearby school. Bella, Cruz, and Cyrus were captivated by row upon row of cheerful miniature-sized shops. Each kiosk was decorated in primary colors, and each displayed some brightly-wrapped, astronomically-priced delicacy to temp passersby: lollypop-sized octopus on a stick waving magenta tentacles gracefully in eight directions; perfectly round lime-green balls of jelly-fish-textured mochi desserts all in a row; anything and everything Bella could ever possibly have hoped to see emblazoned with a Hello Kitty stamp.

Compared to the sweaty, gritty, chaotic streets of Vietnam, everything in Japan seemed painstakingly clean, bright, quiet, and intentional. The market eventually petered out into narrow residential lanes where tidy rows of perfect little wooden homes were tucked behind meticulously-tended gardens. Each of these life-sized dollhouses was set with a unique pattern of bricks and lined with a stone path. The cherry trees were in full bloom and, as if the Japanese Tourism Board was in cahoots with Mother Nature, each tree seemed to toss down its blossoms just as we passed underneath.

As we stumbled through the quiet, fairytale streets, our dog-tired troop seemed like the only thing out of place in Tokyo. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had just landed in Disneyland. Or maybe Switzerland.

An hour later we finally arrived at our hostel, which was the cheapest lodging option Jason could find (and still more than we had paid in any other country thus far). Just one hundred US dollars bought us an eight by ten foot cement cell with a one-inch-thick mattress spanning the breadth of the floor. Nothing fancy, but we were exhausted enough that it didn’t really matter.

Japan is the last country on our itinerary, and it wasn’t even originally part of the plan, other than as a brief airport layover between Vietnam and the USA. When Jason realized that it wouldn’t cost extra to extend our layover—from two hours to two weeks—we couldn’t resist. We hadn’t factored in the cost of actually being in Japan, of course, and that’s proving to be a bit of a shot to the wallet.

Vietnam was a very poor country where our dollars stretched a long way. In Japan, on the other hand, people seem to have a lot more padding in their pocketbooks, and more meat on their bones, for that matter. Tokyo has to be right up there with London as the most expensive place we’ve visited on our route, and the Yen are flying like hot cakes. Or perhaps more like okonomiyaki, the Japanese version of hot cakes that Bella and Cruz have fallen in love with—savory fried patties filled with anything from asparagus and pork belly to octopus and bean sprouts. Other than okonomiyaki, though, Bella and Cruz have found precious little to get excited about in Japanese cuisine.

Of course, finding foods that the kids will eat has been a challenge, at least briefly, upon our arrival in each new country. In fact, if I had to boil down my overall experience of The Big Field Trip to one sentence, I’d say it’s been one long experiment in modern hunting and gathering. Back home, in the US—the Garden of Easy—I remember spending one, maybe two hours total gathering enough supplies to feed the family for an entire week. But on the road, securing sufficient sustenance has been a full-time job.

Japan has been even more difficult than other countries. Chefs here are artists, and some of the plates we’ve been served have been astonishingly beautiful—worthy of framing, even. The challenge has been in finding something edible within the art.

Cyrus is easy; he’ll eat anything just like Jason. After two months of chicken feet in Vietnam, they’d both be perfectly happy eating nothing but sushi for two weeks. And actually, since Bella and Cruz will at least eat miso soup and edamame, sushi bars have been good choices for us thus far. Except for our first one, that is, which was a bit awkward.

It was high noon in downtown Tokyo, and bellies were rumbling. Jason found a crowded little hole-in-the-wall with a floating sushi bar in a busy neighborhood, and we all filed in behind him. Despite the noontime business crowd, the restaurant was nearly silent, save for the chopping of sticks. I noticed there were no other children around. Nor were there any other vagabonds with dusty rucksacks. Even so, we didn’t get any disapproving glares. In fact, we haven’t been getting any eye contact at all, which has taken some getting used to after Vietnam. We squeezed in, as unobtrusively as possible, among a row of chic business men, all of whom were sporting stylishly disheveled hair, pinstriped suits, and pointy black shoes. I glanced around to see how the other patrons were going about selecting plates from the floating bar, then motioned for the kids to do the same.

As Jason scanned the countertop in search of wasabi, Cyrus rolled up his sleeves and began plucking plates from the floating array with wild abandon. Cruz and Bella remained motionless, their eyes growing wider with each passing dish. When a little plate floated by featuring a large shrimp head with tar-black eyes protruding from a nori roll, Bella whispered something in Cruz’s ear, and they both giggled quietly.

Bella scrutinized each floating morsel, more for its entertainment value than food value, and Cruz, who was finally basking in her full attention, followed suit: brilliant pink and purple morsels of sashimi; translucent auburn eggs spilling from cones of seaweed; a trio of pink, green and yellow ping-pong-sized balls skewered on a delicate twist of branch; ginger-striped wedges of salmon arched over perfect blocks of rice; polka-dotted snails impaled on bamboo spikes; cream-colored blocks of egg (or is it tofu?) wrapped with a band of nori.

Jason finally located the wasabi—it was apparently in powder form inside the elegant little ceramic jars that had been placed at various positions around the countertop. He plunged a tiny wooden spoon inside the jar repeatedly until he had a small mountain of the pistachio-green powder on his plate of sashimi. He began mixing in soy sauce. The businessman sitting next to us, who had stylishly-spiked hair and who had not, up to this point, acknowledged our presence, turned his head and looked Jason directly in the eye. Jason immediately realized that he must have done something terribly wrong to warrant such attention. Mister Spikey-san subtly gestured for Jason to stop the mixing by moving his pointer finger back and forth, very slowly, careful not to attract the attention of anyone else at the bar. Maintaining eye contact, Mister Spikey-san then proceeded to take a clean teacup from the countertop, add one scoop of the pistachio-green powder, and place the cup under one of the little spigots that we now noticed at various positions around the bar. Steaming hot water sprayed into his teacup. He gave the mixture a few twirls with his spoon and brought the frothy green tea to his lips. He then ordered a plate of wasabi from the sushi chef and, with a gentle grin, placed it in front of Jason, who smiled back sheepishly.

Cyrus’s stack of empty plates eventually towered to a height nearing his own (which, for obvious reasons, had just surpassed mine and showed no signs of slowing down). After one last piece of nigiri, he finally threw in the towel. He sat back, satiated, with his teacup in-hand, preparing to enjoy the hot wasabi Jason had prepared for him.

Cruz and Bella, whose tummies were still rumbling, returned their gaze to the floating buffet hell-bent on finding something fit for human consumption. When Bella caught site of tar-black shrimp eyes floating down the bar for another run, she slumped, defeated. I tried to cheer her up, reminding her that we would be back in the land of fried chicken all too soon, and that my Pa would never forgive me if I took her home skinny.

“If Grandpa could see this food, he’d say it was nothing but fish bait.”

I couldn’t argue, so we resigned ourselves to another round of miso soup and headed back to the hostel.

It’s difficult for me to believe that this ill-conceived escapade is almost over. I can hardly even imagine being home again. Hugging my sisters. Being able to stop by a friend’s house on the way home… from a grocery store! Sending the kids off to school. Planting a garden. The kids are as happy as tornados in a trailer park to be going home, and half of me is rejoicing along with them, but the other half is an emotional wreck, and I can’t figure out why. For now, I’ll just blame it on the lack of eye contact we’ve received thus far in Japan.

When we arrived in Japan, we abandoned the contest that had been raging between us in Vietnam—that of counting old women in full silk pajamas and cone-shaped hats. Since cone hats are nowhere to be found in Tokyo, we decided instead to tally Kimonos. Kimonos and vending machines. Cyrus says that, according to the guide book, Japan has more vending machines per capita than any other country in the world. Rather than just junk food and sodas, however, Japanese vending machines dispense everything from green tea and sake, to beer, farm fresh eggs, silk ties, hundreds of types of cigarettes, umbrellas, flowers, and even live lobsters.

If you’re shopping for seafood, though, the best place to go is Tokyo’s Tsukiji Market (築地市場, Tsukiji shijō). Tsukiji is the largest wholesale fish and seafood market in the world. We spent the better part of a particularly drizzly day ogling our way through this squeaky-clean market where king crab and eels larger than Cruz wriggle over ice, and massive blue fin tuna are sliced up to be sold for upwards of $370/pound.

With appetites raging, we wandered the rainy streets outside the market and stumbled upon a tiny sushi place—a quaint little dive with just enough room for the five of us. One look at the menu posted in the window, and Jason decided that their lunch special was probably the cheapest deal in town. And, with Tsukiji Market just a few blocks away, it was bound to be some of the freshest sushi in the world.

We squeezed in at the bar and ordered miso and edamame for Bella and Cruz. Then Jason and Cyrus went to town, ordering more adventurously than ever—sea urchin, unagi, and all sorts of other things I’d never before seen dredged up from the bottom of the sea. It was all fun and games, until Jason asked for the bill. He reeled for a moment, sat back, took a long sip of his frothy green tea, and then realized he had neglected a decimal place when calculating the exchange rate. It ended up being the most expensive meal we’ve ever had. For what it’s worth, though, Jason insists it was also the best.

After a few days in Tokyo we were ready to escape the glitz, glamour, and shopping malls. We decided to bite the bullet and plunk down 170,000 Yen (close to two thousand dollars) to buy Japan Rail passes. Since then, we’ve been zipping around the island like Astro Boy, which is how we now refer to Cruz, incidentally, who loves to sit up front with Bella and pretend he’s conducting.

In each city, we have searched out traditional little Japanese inns, called ryokans, as a base for exploration. In the city of Kanazawa, we wandered with umbrellas through magical forests where gnarled trees twist up from moss-covered rocks. In Hiroshima, we mourned at the sites of atrocities past, along with droves of somber schoolchildren, and made origami cranes in the hopes of a brighter future. In Nara, we biked through bamboo forests and lounged in city parks where complacent herds of deer nibbled at our cookies and miniature crimson leaves cast shadows on polka-dotted toadstools. In Kyoto, the ancient capital of Japan, we marveled at the Geisha girls with powdered white faces, ruby-red lips, and flowering Kimonos who still clomp between tea houses in wooden sandals.

We’re studying what seem to be the three main religions in Japan—Buddhism, Shintoism, and Consumerism. We had already learned a lot about Buddhism in Vietnam and Thailand, but Japan definitely practices a different variety. Whereas in Vietnam Buddhism has blended with the traditional ancestor worship, and in Thailand they mix it up with animism, here in Japan Buddhism seems to be served with a healthy dose of Shintoism.

Shintoism is the ancient tradition of Japan, and it might be loosely defined as a religion revering nature. It’s an intriguing philosophy based on the belief in kami, or the powers of the spiritual dimension. From what I’ve gathered thus far, followers believe that kami can make contact with humans through the trees, and that their presence is the strongest in the roots of the forests. This might explain why the Japanese have such a deep reverence for woodlands and gardens. Even in the most unlikely places—in the shadow of a three-story screen flashing ads for the latest gadgets—you look down to find an amazing Zen garden where ancient roots twist around river-rounded stones.

Shinto shrines, or jinja, are erected in spots where there is believed to be a sacred tree or where kami energy is strong. The philosophy reminds me of the ancient Greek belief in the earth goddess, Gaia, who was thought to be a living organism, all points of which were connected to and dependent on each other. Of all the religions we’ve studied on this journey, Shintoism is perhaps the most fascinating to me. Pa says this doesn’t surprise him much.

“I don’t know nothing ‘bout Shintoism, but I reckon you’ve always been kind of a tree-hugging, dirt-worshiper.”

I’m just hoping that one of the religions we’ve studied over the past two years might end up being the right one. And that maybe we’ll have our bases covered with all the temples, mosques, churches, shrines, pagodas, and holy caves from which we’ve sent our prayers up along the way. If all goes well, maybe we’ll be able to pull out one of those trump cards on judgment day and use it as a passport into the Promised Land.

Actually, one of the shrines we visited last week could very well have been our ticket in. The Tōdai-ji temple (東大寺) in Nara houses the Great Buddha Hall (大仏殿), which is the largest wooden building in the world. The main attraction inside the temple is the world's largest bronze statue of the Buddha Vairocana whose ears alone were taller than me. The lesser-known attraction, we learned, was the holy wooden column toward the back of the temple, which has a hole that is apparently the same size as one of the Buddha’s nostrils. Legend has it that anyone who passes through the hole is reserved a place in paradise. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m up for a free ticket into heaven as much as the next gal (and Cyrus especially liked the idea of getting there by means of an immense nostril), but darn it, Bella was hungry, Cruz needed a nap, and the line was just too long. We’re holding out hope that another opportunity for salvation might present itself soon.

Today, we’re gladly leaving the cities behind. Astro Boy and Bella are up front, navigating our bullet train through the Japanese countryside toward the small mountain town of Obuse, which is known for its chestnuts and sake. Pretty sure I could live on that. Tomorrow we will visit the nearby Jigokudani Snow Monkey Park where mischievous Japanese Macaques are said to laze the days away soaking in the natural hot springs.

Our old friend, the Pacific Ocean, whom we haven’t seen since the shores of Peru—eleven countries ago at the beginning of this journey—is lapping at the rails outside Jason’s window on the left. On my side, snow-capped peaks are jutting through the mist and towering brilliantly over bubbling rivers, blooming chestnut orchards, and plot after plot of orderly rice fields. I can’t even bring myself to call them rice patties here, since that might conjure up images of Vietnam: mud and sweat and filthy water buffalos trudging through the slop. The innovative Japanese have somehow developed a highly-organized system doing away with all that messiness.

The Japanese people are incredibly organized, efficient, and conscientious. They have thought of absolutely every detail towards perfecting life, down to the minutest level of comfort. Every ryokan, restaurant, museum, and shrine has a cupboard in the entryway to hold your shoes while you visit. Below this cupboard, a pair of comfy warm slippers awaits you, with toes pointed into the interior of the building so they’re easy to slip on. When you leave, you’ll find your shoes laid out, pointing in the direction of the door to ease your exit.

And then there’s the WC experience. In the bathroom of each ryokan, a pair of even cushier slippers awaits you, along with other niceties such as soap and toilet paper, which we haven’t seen stocked since Europe seven months ago. When you enter the bathroom, you slip off your house slippers and slip on the even comfier bathroom slippers for the duration of your visit. And then, when you’re already feeling all warm and fuzzy and pampered, you sit down to find that the toilet seat has been pre-heated for your comfort. Not only that, but there are a dozen hi-tech buttons on the side of the commode to further enhance your experience. The controls are all labeled in Japanese, of course, but that won’t stop you from testing them all out. There are buttons that control the pressure and temperature of the water stream and another for the temperature of the toilet seat. Then there’s a button for the bidet sprayer in the front and—wow—another one that gets you round back. And—last but not least—is my absolute favorite button, which I think perfectly illustrates one of the main cultural differences between Japanese and Americans. Namely, the Flushing Sound Button.

That’s right—the Flushing Sound Button. It’s not a button that actually flushes, mind you. No, no. That’s done with a good old lever round the side of the commode, like back home. Rather, the Flushing Sound Button is a control that produces the sound of flushing, but no actual flushing. In other words, it allows you to pretend like you’re flushing, even when you’re not.

During our first few days in Japan I mistakenly misjudged the reason for the Flushing Sound Button, assuming its purpose was purely ornery.

Of course! The purpose of the button must be to mess with the people in line behind you waiting for the next available toilet: legs crossed, anxiously chewing fingernails… any time now… Flush! Oh good, that was the flushing sound. She’ll be done any second now… Psyche! No such luck. I’ll be sitting here for a few more moments yet—thank you—just enjoying my heated seat and the automatic car wash.

In retrospect, perhaps my misinterpretation of the button had something to do with having been raised in a particularly ornery family where favorite pastimes included short-sheeting each other’s beds, or refilling all the sugar bowls with salt. And maybe, while we were at it, wrapping rubber bands around the kitchen faucet wand so that the next person to use the sink would get a face full of water. For a few days there, I was delighted to think that the Japanese people had such a playful sense of humor, and quite certain that I would feel totally at home here in light of this discovery.

I had a ball using the Flushing Sound Button again and again, trying to rile up the ladies waiting in line. But for the life of me, I just could not get a rise out of these women. No matter how many times I employed the button, when I emerged from the lavatory, the ladies in line were always waiting just as patiently as they had been when I had entered. And they were just as intentionally not making any eye contact with me. Maybe, I decided, I had misinterpreted this one.

I went back to the drawing board and decided to consult the rest of the family for their input. Jason had also noticed the Flushing Sound Button, of course, but having grown up in a more straight-laced family, he had come to a very different conclusion. One that, after having observed the Japanese people for ten days now, I must confess is much more plausible than my own. After all, I haven’t found any among the Japanese to possess a lick of orneriness.

Jason’s guess is that the Flushing Sound Button is used to conceal the shameful tinkling noises that might otherwise be discernable coming from your stall.

When he first shared this with me, I was incredulous. Pft! Seriously? Where’s the fun in that? But over time, as I admitted to myself that he must be right—again—my jovial-Japanese-jokesters bubble was burst. Maybe I don’t have as much in common with these people as I thought. I mean, really, what does it say about a culture that feels like it has to engage in this futile tinkle-concealing? And not only that, but why on earth do they feel obliged to stand all the way to the side on escalators, even when it’s obvious that no one in the vicinity cares to pass by?

Well I, for one, refuse to participate any longer in this charade. I’m done with the Flushing Sound Button. And with the standing to the side on escalators, for that matter.

I have to admit, though, that I might talk a mean talk, but I’m just a Hello Kitty when I’m out there in the real world. Sure, it’s easy to tinkle like a rebel behind closed doors, but out on the streets I’m not nearly so bold. I follow all the rules right along with the Japanese. Never eating in public spaces, even if I’m ravenously hungry. Absurdly waiting for the pedestrian crossing signal even when there’s no traffic in site! (Which, by the way, would have won us only ridicule in Vietnam.) But, I tell you what, it’s a good thing we have only a few more days here in Japan. Otherwise, I would certainly have ample opportunity to forever tarnish the reputation of all Americans. There are just too many eggshells to tiptoe around here. And tiptoeing’s not all that easy when you’re wearing cushy slippers.

Japan is beautiful—maybe the most visually stunning of all the countries we’ve seen. It’s comfortable and it’s easy and it’s efficient. Even so, I think I felt more at-ease in stinky, chaotic Vietnam. Not to worry; soon we’ll be scot free—back home in the land where anything goes.