Just Japan

I just spent two weeks in the land of the rising sun. And the sun rose every morning, big and red, just like the circle on the Japanese flag portrays. My experience there was unforgettable, and I want to paint a portrait of this singular nation.

There is something profound about an archipelago country — a cluster of islands — surrounded by oceans and seas on every side, where the people and their civilization are unique and untainted by outside influences.

I love their soft, graceful culture. Geijins (foreigners) like myself stood out like a sore thumb. But it wasn’t just our origin. I stood out because I wasn’t carrying an umbrella to protect myself from the sun. I stood out because I wasn’t dressed up in business casual (even to shop at the local market). I stood out because I didn’t eat my food daintily with chopsticks. And, even though I am small in America, I towered over many of them.

In Japan, it seemed that everything and everyone was in their place doing the right thing at the right time. As the safest country in the world, crime doesn’t plague them much. There is a constant feeling of order, or “wa” as they say. A harmony that invites comfort. My husband and I walked to the local coin laundry in the cool evening and weren’t afraid even though the streets were dark.

I’m sure the Japanese people wrote the book on politeness and etiquette. I loved the trains where the conductors bowed as they entered and exited each car. We felt honored as each restaurant waiter did their best to accommodate our needs and wishes. And when our luggage had a shipping hitch, hotel personnel took responsibility and still got it there on time.

I love their culture of preciseness. The pretty sweet cakes they ate daintily. The vending machines on every corner with cold drinks. The fans that everyone (even the businessmen) used in the un-air-conditioned train stations.

I loved how old and young alike waited in a polite line until the train arrived and they boarded methodically — with no pushing and shoving.

I loved the school girls and boys, uniformed to a ‘T,” as they rode to and from school each day on the train with us. “Ha-ro!” they would say, and wave and giggle.

I loved the fresh crab and fish we were served, and the kind lady who told us that fermented beans were healthier than corn flakes for breakfast. (She was right!)

I loved the gift stores where they carefully wrapped paper around each purchase, and place it in a bag along with their business card. You feel special in Japan.

I loved the printed reminders of good living. Above our train seat it read, “It is not safe to rush for your train.” Above one drinking fountain the sign reminded, “You may drink here, but gargling is not allowed.”

Their tiny elevators were unforgettable. My baby, my parents, my tall husband and I were an overloaded crowd. We pushed our massive American stroller in one way, and stood, cramped until the second door opened, on the side. I often felt like I was in Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory, seeking for a hidden door in a tight space. But the waiting Japanese mamas with their small strollers were cheerful and patient.

In America, we place huge garbage cans on every corner to combat the littering problem. But in Japan good living is simply written into their lives. The tiny, quart-sized trash bucket in our hotel room had to suffice. They have little so they don’t waste much. Their limited land and space are treated carefully.

“If everyone sweeps in front of his own house the world will be clean,” says the Chinese proverb. And even though China is not Japan, I had to agree. We saw the Japanese ladies sweeping their doorsteps and watering their pots along the streets each day. Everyone accepted the responsibility to keep their world neat, and didn’t feel they were owed anything – not even an air-conditioned store.

When our two weeks were over, we took our last train ride with the bowing conductors. We bought our last fresh, cold drink from the corner vending machine. We packed up our beautiful fans (the airport was air-conditioned), and we climbed onto the plane. We ate our last meal of fish and beans as we took off, and were served a hamburger just before we landed.

“Welcome home!” said the customs officer as he checked my passport. Yes, it was good to be home again. But the people at LAX were a little more hurried, a little more brisk, a little more outspoken. (The roomy elevators were nice!)

We arrived home with chopsticks for a souvenir, and ate our American watermelon and spaghetti with them. Our children were amused as we described the red sun and the green rice fields.

I love it here and I love it there. Two cultures that are worlds (and an ocean) apart. Someday we’ll go again. But until then, a little piece of Japan will live in my home and heart.