japan day 1

I’m here at long last. A lifetime of watching anime and weebing out over Japanese culture has led to precisely this moment. Covid foiled our original plans of visiting Japan in 2020, but we finally made it. The timing was a bit off, because one of the things I really wanted to do here was hike Mt. Fuji, and it doesn’t look like the trails open until next month — and for good reason, as it transpired. On our descent into Haneda the only part of the iconic mountain (so like the mountain back home in Washington) that was visible above the sea of dark clouds was the absolute tippy top. I guess this just means I’ll have to come back again soon.

    Linguistically I have never been this humbled outside of Hindi classes at school. My dad demanded to know what the hours — years, even — I’d spent watching Bleach, etc. at the expense of more useful pursuits like school had amounted to if I couldn’t even talk to the locals. He has a point. Communicating with airport and hotel staff proved simple enough, since everyone spoke impeccable English. It was when we went to the grocery stores and restaurants that the farce began. First we went to Pizza Bull, an absolutely delightful if tiny family-run pizza parlor in Shinjoku, where the pizza was honestly the best I’ve had anywhere, with the possible exception of Antico’s in Atlanta. When we went in, the middle-aged hostess (wife of the chef) apologetically told us that they wouldn’t be able to seat us. Except I didn’t understand a word of what she was saying. So a kindly white man who was dining in with his Japanese girlfriend and obviously had better weeb credentials than I helped with the translation and said they were done and would leave in two minutes. I was so off kilter that I forgot to thank him. Later, when they were leaving, the hostess addressed us and held up two fingers, which I thought was her saying she could only seat two of us. Once again the heroic white man clarified that she was asking if we were fine sitting at two separate tables. Once again I forgot to thank him. Everything else went relatively smoothly. The old man behind the counter made all of our pizzas in plain sight in a wood-fire oven, and brought them out one after the other in quick succession despite the fact that it was a one-man kitchen. As I said before, the pizza was to die for. We decided not to leave a tip because everything I read online suggested that tipping offended people here, and I taught my parents how to say “arigatou”, which we said as we were leaving, and the lovely couple couldn’t have been more effusive with their “thank you very much”.

    Part 2 of our linguistic trials came when we crossed the street and went to a grocery store. After paying, I couldn’t figure out where you could get plastic bags from. Once again, a kindly local came to our assistance and led us to a service counter. The person behind the counter said a bunch of Japanese words that included the words “roku yen”. Fortunately I knew enough Japanese to know what this meant, but I still had her repeat it because I was in disbelief that anything could cost that little. I don’t know if she appreciated having to cough up change for a 100-yen coin, but I didn’t know enough Japanese to tell.

    Among other cultural novelties, the toilet at the hotel has a heated seat and a built-in bidet. Coming from a backwards country like America, this was truly delightful. I have visions of working remotely from Japan for a year, learning the language and mingling with the locals, like Ansel Elgort’s character in Tokyo Vice — a show I just started watching. I wish he hadn’t been accused of sexual improprieties so I could follow him on Instagram.