Japan with Muriel & Don

When Muriel and Don Stauffer wrote suggesting I join them in a trip to Japan in the fall while Don had to attend a conference, I laughed at the idea as charming but impossible. Twenty minutes later I was mentally listing all the reasons I should and could accept their offer. Prime among them was the opportunity to see the country with close friends who had lived there (after they left Belize in the Sixties) and who still had business in the country.

I planned to fly to Palo Alto four days early for a visit with Carli and Tom, which would give me a chance to see them after more than a year and to share excitement about the coming trip.

Wednesday, 9 September

Departure from Belize. I went to Annie Wongsam at 7:30 to have my hair done, then took a taxi to the airport. All was routine until I reached Houston.

My Continental flight to San Francisco was running late. For perhaps an hour and a half, I sat at the departure gate while agents reported regularly that the flight would be delayed and to advise us to check back in 30-minutes. Finally, I talked to one of the agents and learned that thunderstorms had delayed the plane at its previous stop, so it had lost its slot to depart SFO.

I left the boarding gate for the nearby private lounge, to which I had access through my Priority Pass membership. The woman at the desk assured me that they would announce boarding of my flight. I found a telephone and called Carli to tell her about the delay. Thanks to the time differential, she had not left for the airport.

I fixed a cup of coffee, found a couch where I could sit with my leg up, opened my book, and settled down in comfort. I was on my second cup of coffee when the final call for my flight blared out over the loudspeaker.

Throughout the several rooms in the lounge, people leaped to their feet, grabbed coats and hand baggage, dashed out the door and around the corner to our departure gate. I was last in line. When I got to the gate, I could not find my boarding pass. I fumbled, fretted, finally emptied the document pocket of my bag and retrieved it. It was only when I was seated on the plane, gasping for breath, that I realized I must have dropped my book at the gate in my frantic search. It was a good Dick Francis and I just was getting into the good part. I did not dare return to the boarding gate to retrieve it, so reluctantly took a new book from my hand luggage.

Carli and Tom met me at the San Francisco airport. As we drove back to their home in Palo Alto, Carli gave me a full description of her cousin Peggy Robinson’s wedding the previous weekend.

Sunday, 13 September

We drove back to the San Francisco airport and met Muriel and Don. We had brunch together at the Grosvenor Hotel, where they had spent the night. I was overjoyed that we were able to get together. Carli and the Stauffers had not seen each other since the Sixties, and I wanted the Stauffers and Tom to meet.

Tom drove the Stauffers to the airport and I insisted on their leaving me, too, though my boarding was a couple of hours later. Muriel and Don checked in for their United flight, but I discovered that Japan Airlines would not even open their counters for another hour-plus. Fortunately, I was equipped for the trip with my new Roll-aboard and a small wardrobe bag that hooked onto it. I could pull it with little trouble. I went to the Exchange booth and bought enough Yen to carry me through my arrival and the next day’s holiday. Later I realized that they gave me one of the best rates of exchange of the first part of the trip.

I continued to the bond store and ordered Scotch for our traditional travel Happy Hours. I found Muriel and Don, already checked in, doing the same thing. They accompanied me back to Japan Airlines, where I finally was first in line to check in. My upgrade to Executive Class was honored, to my great relief.

I accompanied the Stauffers to the Red Carpet Lounge to enjoy the time until they had to go to the boarding gate. Don said I could stay, but I was not comfortable, so moved on to my own lounge.

I went to the boarding gate early, thank goodness. Bond purchases were being distributed and it was discovered that mine had not been sent to the gate. A man dashed off to get it and returned with my package as passengers were boarding the flight.

Japan Airlines is no Air France. The club class seats were roomy and comfortable and there was a private TV. However, seats did not recline as far and were closer together. When the man in front of me pushed his seat back, he was virtually in my lap. I felt pinned in my seat like a captive butterfly.

The service was attentive and meals, very good. My flight seemed shorter and less arduous than I expected, similar to the flight from Houston to Paris. I found the time change confusing in the extreme.

Monday, 14 September

We reached Tokyo an hour later than scheduled, due to our late departure. I took the bus into town, a long drive. It was after 5:00 pm as I was shown to my room in the Shiba Park Hotel.

The Shiba Park is the training grounds for staff for Tokyo’s magnificent Imperial Hotel, so service is impeccable. Before the attentive bellman left the room, Muriel was on the telephone calling to invite me to their room next door for Happy Hour.

 

Muriel wanted yakitori for supper, a sort of Japanese shish kebab, Japanese finger food. The little yakitori restaurant that Muriel remembered near the hotel had been replaced by a giant building. Don knew of another. We followed him through an intricate pattern of turns, alley to street to alley, which brought us to a main thoroughfare. In one passageway, a group of five or six black-suited young businessmen emerged, laughing and talking. Don explained that they had stopped at a Geisha house on their way home from work.

When we found the yakitori-ya (shop specializing in yakitori), it was surrounded on two sides by a line of tiny stand-up tables, each with several men eating, talking, and laughing. Inside, long, wooden tables were completely occupied by diners. To my enormous relief, the Stauffers were no more interested than I in waiting for a chance to eat. We backtracked and found a charming sushi bar closer to the hotel.

This was no time for me to experiment with chopsticks. I have used them from time to time and managed not to starve to death. However, the sushi are huge mouthfuls. Don asked the chef to cut mine into three pieces. He did so with cheerful understanding. I managed them adequately. Don ordered a different kind of fish for each plate. Some I liked better than others. I suspect my tastes were fairly plebeian, with tuna at the top of the list.

The Japanese woman seated next to me took great interest in my progress. As my chopsticks approached each morsel, she leaned forward slightly, obviously urging me on, hoping I would do it right. She nodded in approval at each success. When we finished dinner we smiled and bowed to each other with the wordless graciousness I was to learn well in days to come.

Tuesday, 15 September

National holiday, Respect for the Aged Day, which we thought we deserved.

As we enjoyed a Continental Breakfast at the hotel, Don and Muriel warned me about the danger of ordering an American Breakfast in Japan. It always includes salad, often potato salad plus a little slaw or green salad, and usually a sandwich of some sort of fish, as well as eggs, bacon, and sausage.

Don said that some years earlier when he was on a business trip to Japan with a group of Americans, he ordered breakfast for the group the evening before. They all wanted American breakfasts, so he carefully described to the Maître d’ plates with only fried eggs, bacon, and toast.

Next morning his group was served their American breakfasts. The eggs had been fried the night before and carefully preserved in the refrigerator.

 

Guide books warned me that in Japan cars drive on the left. Don and Muriel quickly taught me that pedestrians walk on the left of sidewalks and (try to) stay on the left going up and down stairways. It was easy—and upsetting—to forget. Don explained that when the British went into Japan, there were no modern roads. British engineers built roads in Japan to British specifications, including left-hand driving.

The books did not warn me that bicycles travel on sidewalks, often at a spanking good pace. As I leaped out of the way of one, Muriel laughed, warning that the delivery bicyclists were far more threatening than the ordinary rider I just had evaded.

Don, having no business appointments on the holiday, took command of our sightseeing. We walked to the nearby subway entrance and I had my first experience of Japan’s well-designed, immaculate underground world.

In one of the corridors leading to our train, we all were entranced by an enormous sign advertising “Pocari Sweat.” Delightful line drawings of animals surrounded a center panel with a line drawing of a naked man and the caption “Human Water.” We assumed it was advertising a soft drink and determined to avoid it at all costs.

Train attendants patrolled the platform dressed in dark trousers, short-sleeved white shirts, white gloves, and black-visored caps with a wide red band and varied gold stripes designating rank. Throughout our visit we found them (usually) helpful when we became confused. That day we were lucky enough to see three of the guards together as a train pulled out of the station. All three bowed deeply, then saluted the departing train in unison.

 

My introduction to Japanese temples was probably the most spectacularly colorful one we saw anywhere. Asakusa Kannon, the Sensoji Temple, is huge, ornate, and vibrant with gold and the traditional red-orange color. It is approached through the “Thunder Gate,” an open building guarded by giant statues of the Gods of Thunder and Storm, one on each side of the entrance. Overhead is a gigantic red lantern decorated with huge letters in Japanese script. The gate dwarfs passers-through.

Beyond the gate I saw, to my amazement, that the walkway leading to the temple was lined on both sides by a noisy arcade of gaudy kiosks selling souvenirs, food, clothing, toys, and fortune telling. It was a colorful chaos of pilgrims, shopkeepers, and visitors. The Japanese stopped and shopped, climbed the steps to the temple, bowed heads, prayed for a moment, then returned to browse among the mundane offerings.

We arrived fairly early. The crowd was light. Don warned me that there would be more people later—and there were. Dozens upon dozens of couples and families. However, despite the throngs, no one ever jostled or pushed. The Japanese seem encased in thin, invisible, head-to-foot shields that protect themselves and each others. Muriel said that was true, with two exceptions: 1) boarding subways at rush hour and 2) little old ladies who were all elbows and jabbed their way past at will.

At the foot of the stone steps leading to the temple itself was a large, smoking brazier under graceful little roof. Its smoke is believed to heal. The brazier was surrounded by people thrusting arms or faces into the smoke or waving it toward themselves. Don insisted that I join them. I could not think of a ladylike way of thrusting my leg into the smoke, so satisfied myself with wafting it toward me with large gestures. I did not notice any healing, instantaneous or delayed.

Inside the temple, the statue of Kannon, to which the temple is dedicated, is hidden within a vast, elaborate, gold-plated shrine. A service was in progress. Visitors to the temple were separated from the shrine and monk by a glass wall. The monk bowed before the shrine. A few worshipers were seated behind him, their backs to the glass divider. Off to the right, the deep throb of a drum sounded solemnly.

Donations at shrines and temples are tossed into large rectangular wooden containers covered by wood or copper strips between which coins drop into the bottom and slide from sight.

 

We saw the first of several wedding parties we were to pass on the holiday. The bride was a beautiful young girl in the most elaborate of white wedding kimonos. Muriel said that most brides rent their wedding dresses because the kimonos are so fabulously expensive. This bride was not wearing the usual high, squared white headdress that is designed both to protect her hairdo and to hide the horns women were said to have. The bridegroom wore the traditional short black kimono top with small gold medallions, reminiscent of a black cutaway coat, over a long striped gray skirt with a deep pleat in the front. Muriel explained that the woman fussing with the drape of folds in the skirts of the two was the Marriage Arranger, not one of the mothers.

Most Japanese marriages still are arranged. The Marriage Arranger plays a major role throughout. The parents of the bridegroom pay wedding expenses. Parents of the bride give the couple a substantial gift, appliances for their kitchen or even a house itself. The bridal couple does not need furniture. Japanese rooms normally have only tatami, cushions, and futons.

The ceremony is brief. Then comes a lengthy session with the photographer. Finally, everyone adjourns to the reception. The bride changes into a red kimono for it. She sits quietly with eyes downcast, eating nothing. She leaves periodically to change her kimono. She may make as many as three or four more changes into beautiful kimonos of various colors and decoration, representing an investment of many thousands of dollars by her parents. She will use her wedding kimonos for the rest of her life. Muriel pointed out that the friends bustling around the wedding couple we were watching were wearing kimonos from their own ceremonies, saved especially to wear at weddings. (They all also have a kimono with a special emblem on the back that they save for funerals. This probably is acquired later.) Finally the bride will dress for departure on the honeymoon in a little dark suit, round hat with upturned round brim, and white gloves clutching a small handbag in front of her.

 

As we left the temple, I remarked that I wanted to get something electronic as a gift for Alex. Muriel said that Don would be delighted for an excuse to go to what I assumed was an electronics store. Don decided that for this particular trip a taxi was the best mode of transport. Unfortunately, the driver left us on the wrong side of the station Don had directed him to because the electronics store was adjacent to it.

We walked down and around for what felt a mile and debouched in not just the electronics store I expected, but an entire district—a brightly-lit wilderness of open-front electronic stores on both sides of the street and down intervening alleys for several blocks. The screaming array of hundreds of tiny radios and telephones with their (to me) undecipherable price signs across the front of every store made my head reel. We found what I eventually bought in one of the first stores we tried, but we continued prowling through at least two dozen more stores just-in-case.

Running out of steam half-way through our explorations, we decided it was time for a beer and lunch. Could we find a restaurant in this country where there normally are three on every block? Nothing but electronics stores in the district. We walked endlessly before finding a small Chinese restaurant down a steep set of stairs off a side street.

We had our beer then Muriel declared that as it was lunch time, we might as well eat. I was introduced to the noodle soup Don had warned me would be our standard lunchtime fare. It came Chinese-style in an enormous bowl with chopsticks and a stubby spoon made of some unfamiliar material. One grasped some noodles with the chopsticks—not necessarily at the first attempt—twirled them in the spoon, and lifted them to the mouth, slurping as necessary. Slurping is not only acceptable, but expected. The gentleman at the next table assured us that it is permissible to drink from the spoon. I think I consumed about half of my lunch.

 

We returned to the first store, where I completed my shopping, then took a train from the nearby station to the Meiji Shrine. Don asked whether we wanted to take the subway, which was faster, or the train, which ran on the surface and would allow sightseeing. We opted for the train. Don explained that although the subway system is owned by the government, the train systems are privately owned. Many of them belong to department stores and end right in the stores themselves.

We stopped close to the shrine. One enters through one of the largest wooden torii (gateway to a Shinto shrine) in the country. A wide, wide path of fine dark-gray pebbles leads through dense, peaceful woods over an arched bridge to the shrine. An extensive park like this is highly unusual in Tokyo, with its dense population and limited room to accommodate its people. As we walked down the long, gentle slope, I reminded myself that what goes down, must come up—tired from a generous period of walking about the shrine.

The Meiji Shrine is a collection of low, graceful wooden buildings. All Shinto shrines have a large rectangular stone or cement trough for ritual hand-washing. Small cups at the ends of poles are used to dip water and pour it over one’s hands before entering the shrine. Properly, one’s mouth also should be rinsed. While all the guide books explain this, many tourists ignore the practice.

 

We saw another bridal party parading slowly past the front of the shrine, then entering the far end. It was a solemn, colorful procession. Muriel remarked that it must be a highly influential family to be permitted to have a wedding in the Meiji Shrine.

This bride wore the traditional white headdress and walked sedately with eyes lowered. Muriel explained that the women in the procession wearing dark kimonos were wedding attendees, while the ones in white were vestal virgins from the shrine.

We headed toward another building in an adjacent compound, Muriel going on ahead of Don and me. She turned and gestured frantically to us. We smiled and continued at our own pace. She gestured even more imperiously. We hurried toward her. Another bridal group was emerging from the building and settling down for the obligatory session with the photographer. The Marriage Arranger fussed over the folds of the bridal couple’s kimonos. Friends flitted about at the sides in their bright kimonos, taking tiny steps on their wooden clogs. We spent some time watching and photographing them ourselves. The couple, noticing us, seemed pleased that we wanted to take their pictures.

Muriel and later, Japanese friends, laughingly commented that Japanese are born Shinto but die Buddhist.

 

We headed back up the long hill to the exit. As I suspected, uphill after substantial walking was not as pleasant as downhill beforehand. Partway up we all decided we needed a break. We adjourned to an elaborate restaurant off the pathway for a bit of cold refreshment.

Instead of taking the train or a subway back to the hotel, we walked blocks—and blocks—and blocks to a store Muriel especially wanted to visit. It actually was right where the Stauffers expected it to be. I, of course, had trudged along with them certain that we would prowl Tokyo afoot unsuccessfully for the rest of my lifetime.

The Oriental Bazaar was four floors of exactly that—a wondrous selection of things large and small, choice and simple, expensive and bargains. It had everything Japanese, from the most exquisite of antiques to dear little ticky-tackies. We wandered from floor to floor, admiring here and buying there.

 

When we emerged from the Oriental Store, it was raining. We all were exhausted. We opted for a taxi back to the hotel. We separated to dress for dinner, regrouped in the Stauffer’s room for Happy Hour, and were Don’s guests at the American Club for an excellent meal.

From the dining room, Muriel pointed out the windows of the apartment in which they had lived. It overlooked not only the American Club, but the adjacent Soviet Embassy. Since the Stauffers lived there during the Cold War, they were able to observe an endless succession of tantalizing activities from their apartment.

It was raining when we finished dinner and we returned to the hotel by taxi. Muriel gave me careful instructions about Japanese taxis. One does not open or close a door. The driver controls the passenger doors from his seat and takes great umbrage at passengers who preempt his responsibilities. Seat backs, in front and back, are covered with immaculate half-slipcovers, always white, usually eyelet embroidery, often edged with a pleated ruffle. Many drivers wear white gloves. One does not tip. Taxis are easily available almost everywhere in large cities.

Wednesday, 16 September

In the middle of the night, a typhoon hit Tokyo. We had been warned of its approach. It blew in with heavy winds and rains.

Morning arrived with the horrible news that Muriel could not find her camera. She and Don had searched everywhere. The best she could think was that she had left it in the taxi when we returned from the American Club the night before.

Muriel went to the front desk. She explained the problem. The helpful young man took down all the information, then asked for the taxi receipt. Don had receipts for every move we had made in Japan, but not that taxi receipt. Don and Muriel returned to their room. They searched the waste baskets for the missing receipt. They searched pockets. They tore their suitcases apart. Don finally decided that because it was raining, he might not have waited for the taxi receipt after paying the driver. The desk man promised to call the taxi company and see if the camera had been turned in. Muriel was optimistic about favorable reply because the honorable Japanese automatically turn found items in to their offices or to the nearest police kiosk.

With heavy hearts we adjourned for breakfast. We tried to reconstruct where else Muriel might possibly have left her camera. The last place we had shopped was the Oriental Bazaar. We knew Muriel had the camera when we went in there. Mentally we backtracked our progression through the store. Muriel did not remember whether or not she had it at her final stop. We all thought back to her next-to-last stop. Muriel’s face lit up like the angels in the TV show. She remembered putting her packages and camera on the counter while she searched for Yen to pay for her purchases. Back in her room, Muriel called the Oriental Bazaar. Yes, they had found her camera and were holding it for her.

 

In view of the weather, Muriel and I decided we would spend the day safely in department stores, rather than continue sightseeing. Our first stop was the hotel gift shop, where Muriel and Don each selected an umbrella from the large selection. Don chose a conventional black while Muriel found a pretty collapsible umbrella in a soft bluey-greeny-lavender print. Muriel later commented that had she known she would use it almost every day of the trip, she would have bought a more expensive one.

Don left for his business appointment. Muriel and I headed for the Oriental Bazaar. By the time we settled into the taxi, the rain had stopped and the skies were brilliant blue. That day, Muriel never opened the new umbrella that she was carrying.

We retrieved Muriel’s camera from the Oriental Bazaar, then took a long subway ride to the Ginza, Tokyo’s famous shopping district. Magically, the subway ended within the store to which we were headed.

The store was enormous. The floor we entered held food, more food, still more food—canned, dried, packaged, and raw. The preponderance was fish. It smelled of fish, but pleasantly. We strolled up one aisle and down the next. I found most items unfamiliar, but interesting.

The charming uniformed clerks almost without exception were young, tiny, slim, with their shiny black hair swinging in a short bob, and with delicate hands on wrists with no apparent bones. They were embarrassingly attentive, so polite that it was hard to walk past without buying something. Kind as were their attentions, we resisted the unobtrusive persuasions. Just seeing the dozens and dozens of attentive clerks was a shock after the frustrations of U.S. stores where it is impossible to find a human being with access to the cash register.

We wandered through all seven floors of the store. They carried elegant designer clothes, shoes that were works of art, jewelry to dream over. Price tags were high beyond belief.

 

We paused longest on the floor where kimonos were sold. As we lingered over each magnificent creation, Muriel suddenly whispered and pointed to where a little girl was being fitted for a kimono. She explained that The Day of the Children was approaching, a day when children are feted and parents give thanks that their young ones have survived infancy.

I quietly moved closer to watch the fitting. Just as a man dashed toward me, his face a mask of horror, I realized that I had inadvertently stepped onto a large tatami in my shoes. I backed off instantly, bowing and apologizing, turned and fled to hide my barbarian presence behind a tall showcase. Muriel thought it was funny. I was humiliated, but annoyed that a large tatami had been put on the floor where unsuspecting people might walk on it accidentally. Not that this particular idiot had any business moving in on a private Japanese moment.

 

The store had an art show as, according to Muriel, they often did. Stores, she said, felt obligated to entertain and instruct their clients as well as to provide goods for them to buy. The show had elaborate figures intricately woven of straw or reeds, some mounted on frames in a sort of 3-D, others free-standing on small mats. All were interesting and exquisitely done.

I tried to compliment the artist, but she spoke no English and my Japanese didn’t stretch to a complimentary critique. I wanted to tell her that her work was very imaginative. Muriel did not know the word and could not find it quickly in her handy dictionary. We both smiled, bowed, and thanked the artist, using in the most elaborate wording for the phrase, then headed to the escalator. As we rose, the woman in charge of the show ran toward us, gesticulating frantically. We realized that she wanted us to sign the guest book. We would have done so gladly, had we not been rising out of sight on a one-way moving staircase.

Muriel found the word I wanted. We intended to return later, compliment the artist, and sign the book. However, we returned on another bank of escalators and missed the show.

 

We reached the top floor, where Muriel said the restaurant should be. We walked through another food shop, a far less elaborate one. This was a place where ordinary Tokyo residents could shop for their family meals.

Muriel—in Japanese—asked a clerk where the tea room was located. She was told it was on the bottom floor. Muriel protested that tea shops always were on the top floor. The woman admitted that there was a restaurant on this floor, but added that it was Japanese. Muriel said that was fine. Off we went, following directions.

We found a small, simple restaurant off in a corner. We looked at the plastic representations of menu offerings on display. These are a welcome aid to gaijin (foreigners)—though not intended for them. One studies them, then points to one’s selection wordlessly.

At this little restaurant we pointed, then realized that we had to pay for our meal in advance. There was a bit of back-and-forth before we figured out what we were supposed to do. I thought it would be easier if I paid for my own, but Muriel took over. Ultimately, we ducked under the printed pennants hanging in the doorway and were shown to one of about six plain wooden tables covered with plastic.

The bowing waitress promptly served us hot green tea in the usual handle-less cups. The waitress brought us our drinks and one plate of food. Somehow Muriel had ended up with only three tickets. We laughed at the mix-up. I got up, returned to the cashier, and paid for a second plate of food. Our choice was excellent. Raw fish was piled high with lettuce shredded as fine as silk thread, decorated with fine shreds of carrots and radish.

Our food was good, but Muriel was less than happy about the restaurant itself. It was fine for a little street place, but not what she expected in a major department store. As we left, with Muriel grumbling, we found ourselves in front of an elegant restaurant. “That’s where I wanted to go!” she exclaimed.

We browsed along the display of their offerings. All were elaborate, with five or more items on each tray. I felt what we had eaten was exactly right, especially since we were to be taken out for dinner that night. Muriel was not pacified.

 

We left the store to take care of a specific errand of mine. As we emerged from the arcade, we ran into Don. He was walking off a huge lunch and killing time until his next appointment. The three of us ambled across to the Imperial Hotel for a cup of tea.

We then explored nearby arcades. The Stauffers were disappointed to find that many of the shops they expected to find no longer were there. Don gave Muriel instructions for getting back to our hotel, then left for his appointment.

We walked through a beautiful, modern arcade, then miles through the underground, miles. We walked down three long flights of stone stairs to get our train. Thank goodness, when we got to our station we found escalators to take us up the first two flights. We then were faced with what looked like a Mayan temple’s worth of stairs leading up to the outdoors. Don said he had counted them. There were 63. I had a system for this sort of situation. They say when you are up high, “don’t look down.” This was “don’t look up.” We trudged our way up the stairs, then back to our hotel.

 

We had just enough time to dress for dinner as guests of business associates of Don’s. We met our hosts at a Chinese restaurant in the Ginza. It gave me a chance to see the Ginza at night, a fantasy of vertical, multi-colored lights shining down on throngs of people moving slowly or quickly along the sidewalks below.

We greeted our host, Nishibesan, and his associate and were shown into the restaurant and through to a private room. (As you probably know, the san tacked onto the end of a surname is an honorific, like our Mr.)

Don had known Nishibesan for many years. His English was labored, but understandable. The younger man was gracious but did not say as much. The Stauffers and Nishibesan caught up with news about each other as an exquisite, many-course dinner was served to us impeccably.

It began with a plate of almost transparent thin slices of raw fish topped with a red cube of something Muriel insisted was tomato, but I said was another kind of raw fish.

Later conversation:

Don (to Kate): Did you know what kind of fish that was?

Kate: Of course not.

Don: You’ve heard of the poisonous fish?

Kate: It couldn’t have been. That is fantastically expensive.

Don: I am sure that is what it was.

Muriel: And I’m sure it wasn’t!

Don: As long as you’re not dead yet, you don’t have to worry about it.

The second course was the loveliest fish this non-fish-lover ever has had. A delicate variety of fish had been cooked, fashioned into a cake, quickly deep fried, and was served with the creamiest of sauces.

Next, we had small filets with a mushroom sauce. Accompanying it was a tiny potato baked, mashed with almost an equal amount of finely-chopped crisp bacon, and restuffed into the shell.

After the elegant meal, the dessert was a disaster—a goblet of instantly-melting, tasteless, icy, watery, sherbet containing bits of canned fruit. I found the contrast with the superb dishes that preceded it wonderfully amusing and fought hard to keep my face from reflecting it.

It was early when we thanked Nishibesan for the sumptuous dinner and bade our hosts sayonara (pronounced closer to sigh-OWN-a-rah than to the sigh-ugh-NAH-rah of wartime American movies). The two men left for their hour-plus train rides to their homes on the outskirts of Tokyo.

Don suggested we stroll through the Ginza a bit. We moved among the masses of happy people, enjoying the brilliantly lighted shops lining the street. Perhaps the Ginza is not unlike any other major city’s center at night, but it seemed busier, louder, and more garish.

It still was early when we returned to the hotel. Don proposed a nightcap in their room, so we had a pleasant hour reliving the day and evening before parting for the night.

Thursday, 17 September

Muriel and I set out for the ancient city of Kamakura, outside Tokyo.

Don had carefully shown Muriel which train to take. Don, who is unfailing about directions, routinely underestimates distances. By the time Muriel, with me in tow, found the right platform, there was not a ticket vending machine in sight that offered tickets to Kamakura.

Muriel spoke to the train manager on the platform. He was either unable or unwilling to help. A passerby saw her bafflement and stopped to offer assistance. His English and Muriel’s Japanese could not find common ground. A lovely Italian girl with perfect English took us over. She explained that we could pay for our tickets at the other end of the trip. It was wiser, she said, because if we went back down three flights of stairs to buy the Kamakura tickets, we would lose our tickets for the subway line we had to take first. Even then, we might not find the correct machine for the Kamakura tickets. She added that there was a “Ticket Adjustment” window at every exit.

It was early morning rush hour. Young business men and women on their way to work seemed to travel in flocks of discrete dark suits and white shirts, unsmiling. We got into line with the Dark Suits and soon were propelled by them onto the train.

Muriel noticed me observing elderly Japanese women. Guessing at what was puzzling me, she confirmed that older Japanese women tend to have bowed legs, the result of a lifetime of sitting on their heels. Muriel said she learned to sit that way in art class when she lived in Tokyo. She eventually could maintain the position for thirty minutes at a time. Fortunately, they left Japan before her leg bones were affected.

The Tokyo area now is about 40 miles by 40 miles, or 1,600 square miles within the city limits. The Greater Tokyo area could include as much as 4,800 square miles.

Tokyo is so crowded and expensive that “most” people try to live on the outskirts. Our hosts of the previous evening said that it would take them an hour and forty minutes to get home. They were executives. People lower on the scale probably have two-hour or longer commutes morning and evening.

Trains in Japan run on perfect schedules. Muriel said that when she lived in Tokyo, there were no signs in English, as there now are. She would see what time a train was due at her station, check her watch, get off at the right time, and invariably find herself in the right place.

 

The train to Kamakura was like a subway car with seats along the sides, and straps and poles for standees. The trip took about an hour. We had time to visit on the long ride. Muriel explained that after they left Japan, while Don still was working for Hercules, the company had a guest apartment not far from their home in Wilmington. She and Don acted as “house parents” for a succession of young Japanese executives sent to the U.S. for one or two years of training before returning to Hercules in Japan.

Early in their chaperonage, they were startled to learn that the ceiling had fallen through in the Hercules guest house. Investigation showed that the Japanese tenants were bathing in their accustomed Japanese manner in their U.S. bathroom. They soaped outside the tub, poured pans of water over themselves to rinse, and finally, immaculately clean, stepped into the waiting tub of hot water. A U.S. bathroom is not made for constant deluges. The floor of the bathroom dissolved.

From then on, arriving guests were lectured firmly about American bathrooms and mores. I suspect Muriel, in full professorial mode, scared them into adopting unfamiliar and, to them, unsanitary customs while in Wilmington.

 

We approached our station. The public address system proclaimed a delightful caution in Japanese and then in English: “Please do not forget your forgetables.”

Kamakura is the site of The Great Buddha, a giant seated figure that keeps watch over the city. It was cast in bronze in 1252. The temple that housed the statue was washed away by a tidal wave in 1495 and never was rebuilt. An opening in the back of the statue permits entry into the vast base. One can see the great metal plates that form it. The statue sits impressively huge against the view of the peaceful city below.

We left the Great Buddha and walked down to a street lined with shops, looking for a restaurant for lunch. We passed two that we considered unacceptable, then saw no more until we reached the end of the street. There was a small one. No tables were available. Muriel gave a firm negative in Japanese at the bustling middle-aged waitress’s offer of a seat at a low Japanese table in a side room. At that the waitress rushed up to a single man eating alone at a small table. To our horror she whisked away his food, signaled him to follow, and seated the docile gentleman with his half-eaten meal in the tatami room. She then ushered us with elaborate courtesy to the vacated table. Slightly embarrassed at our privilege, we had our usual acceptable lunch of beer and noodle soup with bits of tofu swimming in it.

We traveled first class in the train back to Tokyo, thanks to a gift from one of Don’s business friends. We were tired and enjoyed the comfort. We reached our hotel in time to rest before dressing for dinner with more friends of the Stauffers.

 

Arakisan —“Hiro”—our host was one of the Hercules-guest-house friends from earlier years. He attended university in the U.S. He is an ebullient, delightful person. Muriel explained that Hiro was one of the few people they ever had heard of who divorced a wife of an arranged marriage. Later he remarried and they had a son. The wife and child, now early teens, live in the U.S. because Wife No. 2 refused to return to Japan. Hiro and the boy correspond almost daily by email and he visits his wife and son two or three times a year.

Don had mentioned before hand that we were being taken to Tokyo’s finest Chinese restaurant. I considered it an appropriate occasion to wear my new-for-Japan dress, emerald silk two-piece with a Chinese-style jacket. Hiro was delighted and insisted that I tell the proprietor, an old friend of his, that I had selected the dress in his honor. I refused, but Hiro told him anyway. The tall young restaurateur appeared delighted, and acted as if he believed it.

As before, we were ushered into a private dining room. There I sat in my “best” dress while Muriel wore a pant suit and the men took off their coats to enjoy a relaxed, informal dinner.

Again, the food was exquisite in looks, delicious, and multi-course. This time, however, we had entertainment with the service. Our waiter fancied himself as a singer and after serving each course, leaned against the door and serenaded us in English with a series of inappropriate, thoroughly American songs.

Friday, 18 September

The rain that had dogged us almost since our arrival was so heavy that Muriel and I decided not to go out. She had hoped to show me the gardens of the Imperial Palace.

We packed for a weekend on the Ise Peninsula as guests of Hasegawasan and Hiro of the company Fujikura Kasei. We each put just what we would need for the weekend in a small bag and delivered the rest to the Bell Captain to be sent on ahead by train to await our arrival in Osaka Sunday evening.

The rain slackened by mid-morning. Muriel suggested that we walk to a nearby shrine, one of her favorites. It was a small, weathered shrine that appeared to have no special significance, until I glanced to the right. There stretching as far as one could see were row after row of identical stone figures standing side by side on long stone bases. Each small statue had a little red knitted collar and cap, some faded to pink. Most had a colorful pinwheel on a stick placed in a holder in front of it. Each represented a child who had died. Muriel said that on good days, one usually saw mothers with children, come to visit the one—or ones—they had lost.

A nearby standing frame displayed rows of inlaid Japanese characters, apparently names of the dead children. Muriel explained that you could not find a child’s name in the list because names are changed as soon as a person dies.

We returned to the hotel and decided to go to the American Club for lunch. Don, of course, had a business appointment and was to meet us at the station. We took our weekend suitcases with us. We had a pleasant change of food, delicious hamburgers. We visited in delightful surroundings until it was time to leave for the train station.

 

Of course, the moment we walked into the terminal, Don materialized at our sides. This always happens. We found the track for the Shinkansen (“Bullet Train”) for Nagoya. While we were waiting, the train-cleaning crew arrived. It was a large group of slim women of various ages in matching suits of light coral slacks with striped coral tops and matching tennis-style visored caps. They moved with a delightful sense of pride in their positions in the subway hierarchy. We watched as they fanned out through the standing train and busied themselves cleaning it.

Our host, the president of Fujikura Kasei, Hasegawasan joined us along with Hiro, his vice-president and our host of the previous evening. Hasegawasan was an athletic-appearing man of medium build, who appeared to be in his forties but was closer to sixty. His manner was formal; his English, better than he apparently thought it was.

The Shinkansen is blissfully comfortable. The cars are luxurious. The ride is like floating on clouds, utterly unlike any train I ever had ridden. The only problem was that it moved so swiftly that I got dizzy looking out the windows. Most of the trip took us through industrial areas or past warren-like apartment complexes built close to the tracks. Buildings flashed past too quickly for the eye to catch.

We changed to a standard train in Nagoya. I found myself in the same luggage situation I had been in Europe 18-months earlier—heavy suitcase and endless stairs. After fighting awkward luggage on that trip, I had invested in a weekender-size Roll-aboard suitcase and a small wardrobe bag that clipped onto it. I considered myself well equipped to handle luggage easily on this trip. I had packed all nonessentials in the wardrobe suitcase and sent it on to Osaka by train. Still, Roll-aboards have a lot of steel in them. They are heavy before one adds the first pair of pantyhose. I really am a disgrace to the Stauffers, as far as luggage goes.

I started easing my Roll-aboard down a long flight of stairs in the Nagoya station, finding it both awkward and heavier than I had imagined. Suddenly our host, Hasegawasan, snatched it from my hands and sped down the stairs with it. I was both relieved and mortified. From then on, he automatically took control of my bag during transit.

 

We reached Toba after dark. We took the hotel limousine to a magnificent hotel, high on a mountain overlooking the bay. We were told that Queen Elizabeth had stayed there. To our amazement, both the Stauffers and I were ushered into separate, identical, spacious suites.

One entered into a paneled entry. Opening off that on one side was a large wash room with a basin set into a long vanity. A separate room beyond held the toilet. Special slippers to be worn only in the toilet room stood ready on the floor matting.

A door on the other side of the entry led to a small room with a wash basin set in an even wider marble counter. Beyond that was a Japanese-style bath.

A large door set with frosted glass led to a comfortable living room. Just to the right of the doorway was a small bar with china cabinet above it holding an assortment of fine-quality glasses of every sort one might need. The omnipresent large Japanese electric pot held water at tea-brewing temperature. Tea service was set neatly ready at one side.

An archway opened on a large bedroom with two double beds covered with thick down coverlets in a handsome print that matched the heavy draperies on the wall-to-wall windows. A carved wooden armoire adjoined a long dressing table along the far wall opposite the windows.

I hung up clothes, freshened quickly, and changed for dinner. Hasegawasan had impressed upon us that he had made a 7:00 pm reservation for us.

 

We gathered in the Sea Horse Room on the first floor, which was the floor below the lobby. We were ushered to a long, elegantly appointed table next to windows overlooking the bay. The lights twinkling on the water like stars came from little boats seeking shelter against a coming storm.

Somewhat to our dismay, we were served another several-course meal, each plate artistically arranged and superb. By this time I was becoming more comfortable with chopsticks, though I approached each bite cautiously, fearing sudden disaster.

We parted immediately after dinner and went to our separate rooms for a long, restful night.

Saturday, 19 September

I awoke early and fixed coffee for myself. All Japanese hotel rooms, I found, had electric pots for brewing tea. They worked equally well for coffee. In Tokyo, I made the mistake of unplugging my hot water pot. This obviously distressed the maid. From then on, I left the pots steaming whether I was in the room or out, awake or asleep.

It was time to take my Japanese bath.

I ran water into the deep, almost square tub, then dipped water out into the large basin that was provided. I soaped thoroughly, then rinsed with a hand-held shower. Water drained off through the traditional slatted floor. Finally, scrupulously clean and well rinsed, I permitted myself to climb into the tub for the final soak. The effect was spoiled by my inability to loll in bathtubs. I probably stayed all of three seconds.

 

We met for breakfast at 9:00 in the Sea Horse room. As we were seated at the same long table, we all assured Hasegawasan that we would like the Japanese breakfast. The service was superb. Each of us was given a lacquered tray with a multitude of dainty covered bowls, small trays, and tiny plates. It was a beautiful picture. But everything tasted of fish.

The waiter asked if I wanted rice or porridge. That was an easy one; I’ll take oatmeal over rice any morning of the week. However, when my porridge arrived, the waiter removed the top from the little bowl and I realized that it was soupy rice. He raised an eyebrow, asking permission as he paused before pouring a dark liquid onto the mess. Thinking nothing could be worse than soupy rice, I nodded permission. I was wrong. It was fish oil.

Muriel pointed to a row of tiny bowls in the center of the table. I was supposed to sprinkle things on top of the porridge. However, they all looked like dried guppies, so I resisted the invitation. I tried to eat my porridge with chopsticks as Hasegawasan was doing. He got great lumps which he ate happily. All I could manage was a bit of something that looked like a slight smear of library paste at the end of my chopsticks.

I found it easy to ignore the dried fish staring at me with a desiccated eye from its little rectangular dish at the back of my tray. One little dish had beans, and another a small crab cake. Both were eminently edible. I investigated the covered bowl on the right. Soup. Not my usual breakfast, but acceptable. Guess what! In Japan the basic broth for soup is not chicken or beef; it is bonito.

Muriel began picking at her dried fish with chopsticks and without success. Hasegawasan urged her to pick it up in her fingers. He said that the flesh on the underside was free of bones. I followed her example and found he was right. It was just a few mouthfuls and it was fish, but it was delicious.

 

At 10:00 we set out in a luxurious van Hasegawasan had rented for the weekend. It was raining and the hotel supplied umbrellas for our party and for others leaving at the same time. Muriel, Don, and I had our own, of course, but Hasegawasan and Hiro made good use of the loaners during a damp day.

We were headed for Jingu, the most honored of all Shinto sanctuaries. Hasegawasan wanted us to see the view from the mountain top, so he directed Hiro to take the drive through the national forest instead of the more direct highway. It was a gorgeous drive, winding through the loveliest of woods and overlooking lush valleys far below.

We had awakened to sun and broken clouds. We left the hotel in light rain. We knew there was a typhoon in the area. As we wound our way up the mountain, we moved deeper and deeper into the gathering clouds. The higher we went, the thicker the clouds and the less we could see. I wondered how Hiro could see anything on the curving trail. The only thing that saved him was the white line down the center. I prayed that someone wasn’t following it coming toward us from the opposite direction.

We reached the top of the mountain. Hiro parked at the observation point. Hiro hustled us all out of the van and into the clouds. We could see each other, but that was about it. We walked to the observation platform and took pictures because that was what we were supposed to do. We have some delightful laughing group pictures, slightly fuzzy as if stroked by an air brush. We all thought it marvelously funny to be taking photographs in deep cloud.

We wound down the other side of the mountain and eventually came to the first shrine. Jingu, which is a series of shrines, is considered the spiritual home of the Japanese people. Most Japanese want to make at least one pilgrimage to Jingu during their lifetime.

The original shrine dates back 2,000 years. However, every twenty years all buildings are taken down and rebuilt completely, exact to the last wormhole. While the buildings themselves are not old, the spirit of the Shinto shrine is.

We walked along the usual wide, wide gray gravel path through an ancient forest. Here and there great old trees had been left standing in the path. They and large trees at the edge of the pathway are protected from passers-by by 5-foot-wide bands of bamboo laced tightly around their trunks as shields. This seems wise in view of the fact that some six million pilgrims and tourists visit Jingu annually.

Both Hasegawasan and Hiro are devout Shintoists. We followed them closely. When they dipped water over their hands before approaching the shrine, we did the same. We climbed the steps to the shrine but could not go inside because of a barrier. We understood that the Emperor and Empress come to Jingu on occasion. At those times, others are barred from the area.

We visited several of the buildings in the extensive complex. As we were returning to the car, Hiro commented that the street we just had walked down to the car park used to be lined with pleasure houses. Men were so overcome at cleansing their souls through a visit to Jingu that they set out instantly to collect new sins. Hiro then added that while they were busy on their pilgrimages, their wives were at home entertaining themselves with handsome young men.

 

No one told us where we were going. We drove this way and that, up and down a series of narrow streets, Hiro and Hasegawasan laughing and arguing and consulting a map. Finally we stopped in front of a charming Japanese house.

Muriel asked where we were going. Hasegawasan answered, “To lunch.”

The Stauffers and I glanced at each other in horror. Our big breakfast had been about three hours earlier. To complicate matters, as we approached the house we realized that this was a tatami restaurant, the height of traditional Japanese dining.

A beautiful young woman in a sea-green kimono, bowing low, greeted us. We left our shoes at the door and went onto the tatami in stocking feet. We followed our hostess down a hall with sliding screen walls and into a private room. The table was long and low. I was faced with sitting on the floor. With relief I saw that we were to sit on a sort of stadium seat with a thick cushion and a padded back rest. Instead of being seated directly across from one another, guests were staggered so that legs could be stretched out without danger of inadvertently playing footsie with the person across the way. It was remarkably comfortable.

The gracefulness of our hostess is hard to describe. She moved with typical tiny steps. She sank to her knees to serve as smoothly as a willow branch bowing to the wind. She rose as effortlessly. She shuffled along the matting from guest to guest on her knees.

Our hostess was very talkative. She wanted to know all about each of us. There was much Japanese conversation. Of course, I had no way of knowing what Hiro and Hasegawasan told her and I doubt that either Don or Muriel could follow completely.

I cannot describe our lunch. I think there were fifteen courses. Each was tiny, but a gem of color and shape. Our hostess spoke no English. Don and Muriel could say a few things to her in Japanese, to her delight. Still, she was so attentive and so responsive that there was a wonderful feeling of friendliness throughout.

The most interestingly presented course was two small rectangular dishes stacked one above the other and covered by a little bamboo cricket cage. We lifted the dishes out to enjoy the food—bits of raw fish, seaweed, other bits-and-pieces, all delicious. When we put the dishes back together to return them to the cage and set them aside, we discovered that the faint design was crickets and wide blades of grass, the pattern of one dish blending perfectly with the pattern on the other.

Muriel explained that it is not unusual to keep a cricket as a pet in a tiny bamboo cage. Japanese homes are so tiny that they do not have room for larger pets. Muriel added, “Crickets are cheerful creatures.”

One course came on an individual brazier. Lumps of grilled eel, possibly one of tofu, and some of the most tender beef imaginable were enclosed in a leaf. The stem of the leaf was poked through its point to make an envelope for the meat.

Muriel bogged down at about Course 11. She knows from embarrassing experience that a moment sometimes comes when she cannot take another bite without risking public disaster.

Across the table from her, our hostess remarked to Hasegawasan, “She drank so much beer that she can’t eat her meal.”

“Careful,” Hasegawasan cautioned her, “She understands Japanese.”

And Muriel did! Fortunately, she was amused. Since we all had only one beer, and Muriel drank only half of hers, she wasn’t offended. I did not see the by-play so don’t know if Muriel made sure our charming waitress knew that she overheard.

Muriel set her unfinished plate aside. The hostess left it there. Muriel moved it to the side. The hostess left it there and brought another. Muriel did not touch it. Another plate was presented and the untouched one moved aside. Hiro finally spoke to the young woman in Japanese and she reluctantly removed everything and did not include Muriel in new offerings. Muriel explained later that she had met that problem before in Japan. They will not remove a plate until you have finished what was on it.

I found that if you replace a cover on a dish they can’t tell whether you have eaten it or not, but assume you are through. This was helpful frequently.

When Don commented at the size of the meal, Hiro said we were not to worry, that we would walk it off visiting other shrines.

The lunch went on and on and on. It was one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. Everything about the room, the young hostess, the service, the food, was exquisite.

To avoid disturbing the picture of gracious oriental living, I shall not discuss the process by which ultimately I regained upright position.

We bowed and “arigato-ed” (Thank-you-ed) our way out, reclaimed our shoes, and returned to see the rest of Jingu.

 

We took the gray gravel path again and looked at the shrine from behind a barricade. All of this was in the rain, with our umbrellas. The rain itself stopped, and started, stopped, and restarted. However, it dripped from the trees continually so the umbrellas remained unfurled.

We continued to another shrine on a side path. It was dedicated to the Fox and is one of my favorite memories. It was small, colorful, charming. We washed our hands ritually before entering the shrine. We tossed coins into the rectangular fare box. I happened to be standing next to Hasegawasan. He bowed deeply twice, clapped his hands loudly twice, bowed again, then grasped the thick bell cord at his left and tugged, making the brass soccer-ball-shaped bell chime loudly. I followed his performance and he insisted I also ring the bell. I did. I hated leaving the shrine, it was such a joyous place. In mood it reminded me of the lower chapel at Sainte Chapelle in Paris.

Hasegawasan suggested we stroll through the nearby shopping area. It was a pleasant series of almost-empty streets and small shops. Unfortunately, it had a large number of restaurants emitting more food odors than appealed to us after our large lunch. We turned this way and that and finally reached the end of one of the streets. Hasegawasan stood legs spread, hands on hips, scowling like a menacing shogun. He thought he was taking Muriel to a “washi” shop where she could buy the beautifully decorated Japanese gift paper she had mentioned looking for. The shop was gone. He led us up one street, around this corner, down another street—it was fascinating. We finally stopped at a shop that sold wood-block prints. Muriel found some of her paper and we bought some wood-block post cards.

We returned to the car and Hiro announced that the weather seemed to be clearing. We would return by the mountain road so we could stop again at the observation point. As we started climbing we had a gorgeous view of the town of Ise below. And then we were in the clouds again. Obviously they had been waiting for us. We could barely see the observation spot as we drove past, laughing uncontrollably at our luck, or lack of it.

 

Back at the hotel, we took thirty minutes to freshen up, then gathered in Don and Muriel’s room for Happy Hour. I thought I would expire when Hasegawasan announced that we were going to the sushi bar in the hotel for supper. I had not planned to eat again until next weekend.

In the sushi bar, I happened to sit next to Hasegawasan, which may have been a mistake. He ordered twice as often as did anyone else, and he did everything possible to see that I ate at his pace. I couldn’t.

I suggested that my pieces be cut in two so I could manage them better, as we had done our first night in Tokyo. Hiro remarked that was what was done for children. I was doing fairly well at picking up with my chopsticks the little packages of raw fish wrapped around tightly-compacted sticky rice and dipping it into a tiny dish of sauce. Muriel made the disastrous mistake of telling me that I was managing my chopsticks quite well. My world exploded.

My chopsticks suddenly crossed. The sushi slipped and dropped out of sight, missing my plate, missing my lap, and failing to miss the attention of all my friends. I was mortified but tried to carry it off with a laugh at my ineptness. We continued our meal, but I was somewhat undone. Everyone offered me advice, which did not help. I was shattered. At one point Don reached over and, somewhat impatiently, showed how I was using my chopsticks at the wrong angle to pick the portions of sushi up safely. I thanked him, but silently wished he had demonstrated it earlier.

Soon after that, we left the sushi bar. I picked up my pocket book from the little shelf under my stool, slipped the strap over my left shoulder, and out of habit grasped the corner of the bag. My hand closed on something smooth and cold that only could be a piece of raw fish. I realized with horror that the sushi had stuck to my handbag. I unobtrusively pealed the piece of fish off my handbag, clutched in it my hand—fortunately, the left one—and put my hand down at my side, hoping no one would notice.

It was time to say farewell to our attentive host. Hasegawasan intended to leave for his nearby home early Sunday morning. I consider my performance as we shook hands and I thanked him for his expansive generosity, a lesson in poise-under-pressure.

When we left Hiro and Hasegawasan, Don suggested I join them for a nightcap. I agreed. As I entered their suite, I excused myself, closed the bathroom door behind me, flushed my fishy burden, washed my hand and the corner of my bag, and quickly rejoined my companions. I honestly don’t know whether I told them what had happened or not. I may still have been too embarrassed at disgracing them in front of their friends.

Sunday, 20 September

We packed to leave for Osaka later in the day. Hasegawasan departed, though not as early as he had planned. I had a chance to say a second, unencumbered goodbye.

We returned to the van and Hiro drove us to the Mikimoto pearl museum. We parked in the most beautiful garage I ever have seen. The entrance and elevator were worthy of a business building. We walked a short way, then over an enclosed bridge from the mainland to the Mikimoto Pearl Island.

We watched the show of women diving as they used to dive for pearls before the business of cultivating pearls was expanded and modernized. They arrived in an enclosed launch, wearing white uniforms of jumpsuits and a head covering.

They entered the water with their large baskets, dove down, and stayed a frightening length of time before returning to drop one or more oysters into their floating baskets.

Nowadays after the nucleus has been implanted in each oyster, it is placed carefully in a netted rack and suspended under great rafts holding dozens of racks. We could see a large fleet of rafts anchored in the sheltered bays nearby. The procedure of caring for the oysters is far more complicated and painstaking than I intend to describe here.

We studied the process in pictures and models in the nearby museum. Young women demonstrated the key task of selecting an oyster and seeding the nucleus around which it would create a pearl. Other young women showed how pearls are sorted, matched, and strung. On display were some of the enormous and elaborate creations Mikimoto has made of pearls for exhibitions or anniversaries—a Liberty bell and a temple, for example.

Then, naturally, there was an elegant jewelry store. The most exquisite of pearls were available for sale, as well as less expensive pearl jewelry.

 

When we finished with the Pearl Island, it was noontime; we had to catch a train just before 4 o’clock; we had to have lunch; and our destination, Kashikojima, was two hours away. It was all very complicated, but somehow we found ourselves back in the car flying along one of the most beautiful drives I ever have seen.

We wound up and around mountains with overlooks of the bay, fishing boats and rafts, and green islands. We reached an overlook with a restaurant and grounds full of topiary of all sorts. Far below, the Pacific beat against huge rocks and spume leaped high in lacy contrast to the dark water.

To everyone’s relief it was decided that we did not have time to continue to Kashikojima. Don explained that he was less interested in our reaching there than in my seeing the glorious drive.

Don obviously expected Hiro to suggest that we have lunch. The restaurant looked like the kind of place I prefer to avoid, but no comment. Moments later we were in the car hurtling back down the mountain. Don, who takes mealtimes seriously, appeared to be in shock. I managed to stifle my giggles at the situation. To Don’s relief, Hiro turned into a narrow road that led to a charming restaurant. However, it turned out to be a tatami place that offered only the full course meals.

Onward we went. Hiro suggested that we stop at the Maritime Museum, which we had passed on our drive up. Muriel said later that she was sure he intended to go there all along. I was delighted. Don was about to die because he had not had any food and it was now past one o’clock.

Fortunately, there was a tiny café attached to the museum. It was decided we would stop there. We had welcome beers and bowls of soup with a special kind of fat noodles, famous in the area. They were quite good, though they looked distressingly like long, white worms.

The museum was fascinating, an extensive collection, handsomely displayed. We lingered happily.

We returned to the hotel, picked up our luggage. En route to the railway station, Hiro stopped to fill the gas tank of his rented van. He drove into a small area that did not look like any gas station I ever had seen. I watched with amazement as the attendant pulled a hose down from the ceiling and inserted it into the car’s tank. Land is so choice in Japan that they do not dare waste space on the kind of pumps that are common in the United States.

Hiro delivered us to the terminal. We said goodbye reluctantly.

 

We had a pleasant ride to Osaka.

The Hotel Granvia in Osaka was an experience in itself. Our train arrived on the ground level. This was fortunate, since I no longer had the attentive Hasegawasan to manage my heavy bag. We rolled our suitcases effortlessly a short distance through the expansive marble lobby and directly into the lobby of the hotel. Furthermore, I learned later, through the doors opposite, one was immediately in a major department store. And up one of the towers, using a separate bank of elevators to three high floors, were literally dozens of small restaurants of every sort imaginable. I never ceased marveling at the gloriously convenient conjunction of facilities.

We checked in, deposited luggage in our rooms, reconvened for Happy Hour, and decided to take advantage of the convenient restaurants for dinner.

Don led us to the special bank of elevators and we ascended to what seemed to be an indoor arcade of restaurant after restaurant after restaurant, each displaying the plastic replicas of its menu offerings. We walked the limit of the floor without making a choice. We saw a sign saying there were more restaurants on another floor. We went up to that level and again “cased” each of the restaurants. They were a cut above the ones on the lower level, but none appealed to us.

We returned to the lower floor and entered a tempura restaurant we had seen earlier. It was simple and unimpressive. We had to wait to be seated and were directed to a tiny bench crammed into a corner. The three of us perched precariously but, fortunately, did not have to balance uneasily for very long.

We were seated cheek-by-jowl next to Japanese diners. No matter; the tempura was delicious—shrimp, chicken, and various kinds of fish fried in delicate batter. We also were served an egg concoction in a small bowl, a little like an unsweetened flan with some ginkgo nuts and other goodies in it. It was tasteless until Muriel talked me into putting Shoyu (soy) sauce on it. Directly after dinner we adjourned to our separate rooms for an early night after a long and interesting day.

Monday, 21 September

Rain. We had planned to go to Nara, but a look at the dismal weather convinced us we should do local things in Osaka instead.

I went down to the Beauty Salon to make an appointment to have my hair done. Muriel suggested going with me but I assured her I could manage quite nicely on my own. I did, but it was a lengthy process.

The charming young girl at the desk hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. We talked brokenly at cross-purposes until I finally realized that the time I proposed arriving appeared to her to be the time I expected my session to be finished. In desperation I went to the 24-hour clock, but that threw her even farther.

A second young woman joined us and seemed just as confused as the first. I happened to glance over the high desk and saw the appointment chart. I saw an ideal vacancy and pointed to it. The girl said she couldn’t finish me in thirty minutes. I didn’t care, and finally convinced her of it. My name was entered on the sheet proudly. I was escorted to the door amid bows and smiles and chirps of pleasure.

 

Muriel and I set off for the famous Osaka castle. Don had given Muriel subway instructions. We walked out of the hotel, into the adjacent terminal, down long, wide corridors lined with shops. Muriel paused slightly in front of the ticket dispensers. A gentleman stopped to ask if he could help. They held a brief conversation in Japanese. He assured her the 200-Yen ticket was correct. Muriel, studying the diagram on the wall had thought we needed tickets for 230 Yen.

Muriel was right. When we tried to exit at our station, the gates snapped shut. Muriel forced hers open and pushed past. I was blocked. A boy in his early teens saw my dilemma and led me to the Ticket Adjustment window next to the exits. Muriel joined me and we paid the rest of our fares.

We emerged from the subway. Every time we paused and looked lost, someone stopped to help us with English of one caliber or another. Muriel told me that all Japanese are required to take several years of English language in school. However, most of them are comfortable writing English, but not speaking it.

We found our way to the castle, a magnificent, gaudy, great structure, glowing with gold, high on a hill. We walked in the wrong gate, of course. We were in the expansive area surrounding the castle but needed to find our way through the high inner stone guard wall. We backtracked out through the great outer wall, and walked about a block and a half to a gate that led through both. A wide stone ramp led over the moat and into the castle area proper.

Muriel and I both were dismayed to find the entire castle has been rebuilt with the exterior exactly as it was originally—breathtaking—with the inside a modern museum.

The elevator took us to the fifth floor. From there we had to walk up to the eighth floor. We visited the exhibits on each floor as we went. The most fascinating were a kind of living diorama I never had seen. Behind flat plates in the wall, lights came on to show a three-dimensional scene. Tiny figures appeared. They obviously were actors, filmed, reduced, and somehow projected into the setting where they moved and spoke. A dozen or more of these small dioramas told the life story of Hideyoshi, who built the castle many centuries earlier.

An observation deck surrounds the eighth floor, under the soaring roof of the castle. It was fascinating seeing up close the heavy, gold-plated decorations of the building. From the deck, one can see the expanse of Osaka, a beautiful city that Don termed the Chicago of Japan.

When we decided to leave, we found that our elevator went up, but not down. One walks down all eight flights. It is a clever way of assuring that most guests take advantage of the many displays. We stopped to see the exhibits on each floor—fascinating artifacts, costumes, art. It was a lengthy process, it was interesting, and we were dead by the time we got to the bottom.

We found a small restaurant in one of the buildings in the compound. I ordered what became one of my favorite Japanese lunches, a breaded pork chop with some wisps of scrambled egg served on a bed of rice.

 

With the help of a series of kind passers-by we found our way back to the subway. We took a train to another station where again, thanks to occasional help from bowing strangers, we reached the temple to which Muriel was headed.

Our walk took us past a school just as very young, uniformed children were leaving. It was amusing seeing the doll-like little girls in their round-brimmed hats and little boys with bikes slightly too large for them doing all the same just-out-of-school things American youngsters do.

We strolled slowly through the shop area, enjoying the bewildering array of offerings, and finally reached the grounds of the temple and nearby elaborate five-story pagoda.

It must have been a special day. For a distance of perhaps three blocks, the area in front of the temple was a network of small awninged kiosks selling everything imaginable from used clothes and china to fresh fruit.

When we entered the temple, a service was in progress. The monk was chanting, beating a drum, and clanging a brass bell. He appeared to be praying over some thin pieces of bamboo with writing on them. Muriel remarked that she would love to have one to give her skiing friend who was a Buddhist.

When we left the temple, I told Muriel that I thought a young woman in a nearby stall was selling the bamboo strips. Muriel went over to speak to her. As I watched, the young woman’s face took on a strange expression. She and Muriel both began laughing. Muriel returned to report that the strips were prayers for the dead, and her friend was still very much alive.

 

Magically, we easily found our way back to the subway. Muriel asked directions of one of the guards. He motioned on, on, on, so we followed his gestures and walked on, on, on, down some stairs, and on, on, on. Muriel was studying the subway map when another of the fine subway attendants came to her assistance. He led us to another stairway and we finally reached the right track.

When we emerged from the train at the other end, a young man asked if he could help and showed Muriel which way to go. Next time she hesitated, a young woman showed us which of the maze of corridors to take to get back to the hotel.

Before reaching our destination, we reached the department store that joins the hotel. Unfortunately, the store opened off both sides of the corridor. We gambled on one side. Muriel ambled ahead but I decided we had wandered enough. I spoke to a helpful clerk who led us out of the store and directed us to the door of the hotel, just out of sight behind the jutting opposite entrance to the department store.

We shared a quick beer in Muriel’s room, then I went up to my hair appointment.

 

The two young women with whom I had conferred earlier in the day were amazed, but delighted, to see me both there and there at the exact time.

I was seated in a chair. A lap robe was thrown over my legs, probably for modesty rather than warmth. I was festooned with towels, then draped with plastic. A small table was rolled up alongside me. It held a small cup in which the operator indicated I was to deposit my glasses. She presented another dear little cup with a tiny doily in the bottom in which I was to put my earrings. With gestures, I was instructed to deposit my handbag alongside them on the top of the table. Throughout my stay, every time I was moved, the table was moved so that it remained right at my elbow.

The girl who had been at the reception desk began brushing my hair, long and deliciously. Then she lowered the back of my chair, firmly holding my neck as we went because the counter moved to expose the basin beneath it. She began my shampoo. She had the tiny hands of a twelve-year-old, but they were capable. In soaping my hair, her two little hands moved back and forth faster than I could believe human hands ever could move. When my hair was properly clean, she finished with a massage of my head, my neck, and finally of my shoulders. I decided that I did not care what I looked like at the end, the experience was so blissful.

She whipped off my coverings, replaced them with a new set, and whirled the chair around to face the mirror. An older woman replaced her to set my hair. With gestures I explained that I wanted it blow-dried and she apparently understood. However, somehow she applied the mousse after drying, instead of beforehand in the usual way.

She “finished” the coiffure by running her fingers through my dried hair. It looked quite all right on the sides and in the back, but the front was a disaster. I indicated to her that it was exactly what I wanted, got up, and walked toward the counter, intending to pay.

Instead, I was motioned over to a settee where a cup of hot tea and crisp cookies were laid out on a coffee table for me. I partook as expected and indicated my pleasure. Finally, I was allowed to pay and was ushered out amid bows and exclamations of pleasure on both sides.

As soon as I reached my room, I used my traveling curling iron to reorganize the front and top of my hairdo.

 

I rejoined Muriel and Don for Happy Hour, then we left the hotel to go to a small family sushi bar Muriel and Don enjoyed when they lived in Tokyo. Don had looked for it earlier that day to make sure it was still there. With his usual serendipity, he ran into the owner not far away. They rejoiced at seeing each other again.

It was a simple place, tiny, tacky, and sweet. The owners, a couple probably in their sixties, were wonderfully welcoming. No other customers were there. We had a delicious sushi meal. Then, at Muriel’s urging, they put on their karaoke. The man had a beautiful voice and his wife had a very good soprano. They sang some Japanese songs. Don described one of the songs, a plaintive geisha favorite, as the “second Japanese national anthem.” We all joined in singing the final song in English before saying “sayonara.”

Tuesday, 22 September

The weather still was unsettled, but over breakfast it was decided we had to go to Nara anyway.

Don walked us the whole way to our train because he did not trust us to find it. It was rush hour. As we passed an entrance to our corridor, its 20-foot-wide stairway was solid with young Japanese business people, step after step with people a dozen or more abreast, all dressed in dark suits with white shirts and all with inscrutable faces that probably had more to do with the early hour than with their culture.

When Muriel and I reached Nara, the skies were doing something more than sprinkling. We hoisted our umbrellas and proceeded on the long walk to the Todaiji temple. We passed the beginnings of the noted “Deer Park,” large grassy fields with animals happily grazing in the rain. Muriel, who remembered the deer at large, was disappointed. Soon we met a herd of deer huddled under a tree on our sidewalk. Others were walking about ignoring the rain. The shop where Muriel intended to buy food for the deer was closed.

We turned off the main road onto the long road down toward the temple. Two rickshaw men tried to talk us into rides, but we waved them away. Despite the rain, several large groups of uniformed school children, most of them young teenagers, were headed for the temple. We paused where a huge group was arranging themselves on steps to have their photograph taken, oblivious to the rain. We finally made our way past them and on up the long stone walkway leading to Todaiji. Deer wandered wetly around us.

Todaiji houses the Great (indoor) Buddha, said to be the largest bronze statue in the world. It is dark and magnificent. To each side and somewhat behind the Great Buddha, are two enormous gold statues.

School children were everywhere, milling but polite. Every one of them intended to have his/her picture taken in front of the Great Buddha. An older boy, perhaps 17, was posed in front of the statue when a much younger girl came up, snuggled along side him, and just as the picture was snapped, raised her hand in imitation of the Great Buddha’s gesture. From then, everyone had a hand raised when a shutter clicked.

We walked around the side and behind the statues. At the corners of the room were great, ferocious statues Muriel described as temple guards. The temple and its statues were intriguing and impressive. I found the Great Buddha almost hypnotic. One begins to lose oneself in its ineffable serenity.

When we reached the first gate outside the temple, we found a young woman and her husband feeding a couple of deer. They gave them the last of their food. The deer waited expectantly, then when no more was forthcoming, one nipped accusingly at the girl’s skirt. She looked terrified. Her husband rushed to her defense and shooed the deer away. Muriel said the same thing happened to her in the Deer Park except that the deer she offended waited until she turned her back, then nipped her in the behind.

 

It was raining as we left the temple, but not hard. As we walked up the little stile through the final gate out of the compound, the skies opened up.

We already were soaked, so we decided to stop for lunch, then continue to a nearby shrine that Muriel particularly loved. The street had been lined with open shops and little restaurants as we went to the temple. Now all were shuttered. Luckily, the little restaurant at the corner of the main street still was open.

After our respite, we continued through rain-lashed woods up a slight hill toward Muriel’s shrine. The rain was heavier and the wind gusted wildly. We both found we were climbing the hill walking bent almost double with our umbrellas held as shields in front of us as we fought the increasing wind and driving rain. After struggling for about half a block, Muriel turned and asked, “What do you think about just going back.” I had been pondering that possibility. We wheeled about and let ourselves be shoved along, like a couple of heavy leaves, to the big intersection.

Muriel went into our little restaurant and asked the pleasant woman who had served us earlier where we could catch a bus. I interrupted to say, “Muriel, there are lots of taxis on this street.” The station was a long walk, but short ride dead ahead on the same street.

When we returned to the intersection, the rickshaw men pounced. Muriel ignored them as she looked for a taxi, so I was left to fend them off. I finally succeeded when they insisted on knowing where we were going. I raised my eyes as if looking far beyond the horizon and dreamily replied, “Far, far away.” The rickshaw men retreated, either unwilling to have a long run or reluctant to become involved with a slightly crazy elderly foreigner.

A taxi appeared almost as soon as we reached the other side of the street. It was pouring and we clambered in gratefully. I was wearing my new brown wool skirt for the first time. Muriel made me feel better about its sodden state by commenting, “I hope it doesn’t shrink.”

Taxi and train returned us to Osaka and the shelter of the Hotel Granvia. It was only when we turned the TV on to CNN that we learned a typhoon had raged inland through the Kobe, Osaka, and Nara area and continued through the north of Japan. Bad as the storm had seemed while we were in it, we had no idea it was that dangerous. It was scary to realize how easily our trip to Japan could have been ended and our trip to the Unknown been hastened by typhoon-tossed tree limbs.

Muriel commented, “I must say we’re inveterate sight seers to keep going through thunderstorms and typhoons.”

Wednesday, 23 September

Japan was kind enough to give us another public holiday for the Autumn Equinox. Don had worked out a very special program for the day.

Through a Japanese friend, Don bought tickets for all of us to a famous dance review in the town of Takarazuka. Don studied maps and time tables and determined that we could take a train to the cable car at Mt. Rokko in the Inland Sea National Park. We would ride to the top, then take the longest rope-way in Japan from Rokko to Arima Onsen far below. The trip allowed us a leisurely lunch before curtain time.

The view from the cable car going up was matchless—deep green forests, the jagged coastline of the inland sea, and a panorama of the great harbor at Kobe. We reached the restaurant recommended by Don’s friend midway up the mountain. However, as it was only 10:30, it was too soon after breakfast to stop for lunch.

The suspended rope-way car was even more exciting than the cable car. When we started down, Old Kate was not happy. It looked precipitous. The car swung down toward gashes between trees that looked too narrow to accommodate us. I was sure we would hit something either beneath us or at the sides. We didn’t, by what I considered fractions of an inch. I am never completely at ease swinging helplessly far above the land, but in this case I was so busy enjoying the view that I did not have time to contemplate catastrophe.

We landed in Arima. On Don’s map the town looked about five miles away from the rope-way terminal. Don blithely announced, “We’ll walk into town.” This is the sort of thing that throws me on our travels.

Off we set down the roadway. Almost immediately, Don turned left onto a steep, narrow, roughly paved street. I thought he had lost his mind. I was sure my knees never would be the same. The road wound down and around past one spa after another. In a relatively short time we were in town passing shops and restaurants on either side, looking for a place for lunch.

Nothing seemed to suit us. Muriel remarked, “You watch it; we’ll be back up here to one of these after we reach the foot of the hill.” She was right. Furthermore, the little restaurant we chose was quite good. I had an extremely good version of the pork-chop-and-egg-on-rice dish.

From Arima, we took a bus to Takarazuka. We arrived an hour-and-a-half before show time. Don deliberately had left a lot of slippage in our schedule. We strolled to Takarazuka’s enormous amusement park and located the theater in a large building that also housed several fine shops. We wandered about the area and killed time until the audience emerged from the first performance.

We had excellent second-row balcony seats that gave us a perfect view of the entire stage and the runways on both sides and along the front. The show presented a well-known troupe of all-girl dancers. They begin as little children and grow up in the dance school, ultimately graduating to the troupe.

I have never seen such staging in my life. The settings, the lighting, the costumes—everything was spectacularly beautiful. The first half was a dramatization in music and dance of a Pushkin story. We had to fight to make ourselves realize that the “men” actually were women dancers, their movements and entire body language were so masculine. Even in dance they moved like chorus boys. Several had strong alto voices.

It was a rather confusing story and we had not studied the program notes carefully enough. As war succeeded war, we hadn’t a clue who was fighting whom. The hero kept dying, we thought, or being dragged off to be shot. Next scene he would be resurrected and reunited with his love. We sorted it all out with the notes afterwards.

The second act was a series of dances, many to jazz or modern music. The staging of each was fabulous. There was a Rockette-style number. The finale was straight out of the Lido in Paris. Lights rose gradually on a stage-wide white staircase, narrowing at the top, risers outlined in lights, as dancers slowly appeared tier by tier wearing white feather headdresses that threatened to carry them away.

 

We walked to the nearby train station and got a train directly back to our hotel. We were late returning, so decided to have dinner in one of the little restaurants in the hotel. After the usual wandering and trying to decide, we went into a Korean barbecue place.

A grill was set into the center of the table. We were served large platters of various kinds of meat to cook ourselves over the fire and dip into special sauces. We had beef, tongue, chicken, huge mushrooms, and vegetables including corn on the cob sliced like wagon wheels. The tongue was delicious; the beef not that tender. We all decided the chicken was the toughest bird we ever had tasted. Later we learned that it was not chicken, it was stomach.

Thursday, 24 September

Muriel and I took a train to Horyuji, between Osaka and Nara. The grounds of the Horyuji Temple house the world’s oldest surviving wooden structures and give a glimpse of life as it existed in Japan more than 1,300 years ago.

We—Muriel—found our train without any trouble. There were only a few people in our car. We reached what we thought was our station. Muriel, speaking Japanese, asked a pleasant older woman near the door if this station were Horyuji. She said yes. I exited. Muriel lingered, asking the same question of a nearby young boy in case there had been a misunderstanding. He agreed that this was our station. Muriel still was inside the train. Doors remain open only for moments before slamming shut. Possibilities raced one after the other through my frantic mind: Should I stay on the platform and risk Muriel’s disappearing down the track on the departing train? Should I jump back aboard? The problem was solved when Muriel stepped off the train moments before the doors would have sliced her neatly in two.

This was a small station, not automated. We gave our tickets to a man in the Ticket Adjustment office. He protested, waving the tickets and talking rapidly. Muriel said she didn’t know whether we owed him money or he owed some to us. To settle the matter, we both smiled broadly, bowed, and left.

We walked down a nearby stairway. The view at the bottom was an acre of parked bicycles. We emerged in a walled alley, where the single human being wore a hard hat. We quickly retreated to the station. The man in the Ticket Adjustment office was holding out our unexpired tickets to hand them to us as we passed on our way back to the platform. We found that the name posted for the station was something beginning with H that was not Horyuji.

Moments later another train arrived and moments after that we exited properly in Horyuji.

The temple complex is a symphony of graceful, weathered buildings. We visited most of them, fascinated by what the pamphlet describes as “a unique storehouse of Buddhist culture.”

 

We returned to Osaka early to rest and dress for dinner with old friends of the Stauffers. Japanese rarely entertain in their homes, usually because homes are too small to permit it. It was a special honor for all of us that Matsuosan and his wife had asked us to dinner.

Matsuosan picked us up at the hotel at 4:30, which we thought an unholy hour. However, even having avoided rush hour traffic, it took us over an hour to reach his home in the suburbs. The home was perfectly lovely and far larger than any of us expected. He said they had lived there for thirty years. Don said later that either Mr. Matsuo or his wife Kazi must have private money because the house was far larger than his salary level would have made possible.

A garden, elegant with groomed shrubbery, stepping stones, and artistically placed rocks surrounded the house. A gravel walk led to the front entry, where we deposited our shoes. Muriel politely refused the slippers offered by our attractive hostess, saying she preferred her stocking feet. I followed her example.

We passed through a small room with bookcase and into what to us would be a modest-size living room but was luxuriously large in Japan. The room was attractively furnished with comfortable upholstered pieces, a large coffee table, and a handsome wall of book cases, cupboards, and shelves for “pretties.” Double sliding glass doors opened onto the garden.

We enjoyed a beer and conversation before adjourning to the dining room. Don had asked Matsuosan ahead of time whether we should expect to eat sitting on a tatami. He laughed and said that they had only one tatami room, and it was not used for either eating or sitting. It was their bedroom.

They had a fine dining table and chairs at one end of a long room with the kitchen at the far end. The table was elegantly set with damask, silver, crystal, and fine china service plates. We three Barbarians were delighted to see knives and forks instead of chopsticks, a gracious concession by the Matsuos to their guests. Each of the several courses was as lovely to look at as it was delicious to eat. The appetizer included a tiny bowl of cut avocado in a creamy sauce, grilled swordfish under a garnish of angel-hair pasta and fine shreds of carrot, and three thick slices of something that looked like uncooked bacon that I hoped wasn’t.

Following that, Kazi brought out an entrée of a nice piece of very tender beef in a delicate gravy, set off by the bright green and orange of perfectly cooked broccoli and carrots.

We had begun with beer. Wine accompanied dinner. Somewhere along the line we had sake. Matsuosan mentioned that he had begun making beer out of a kit from Australia. He left the table and returned with a bottle. Given some of my past exposure to home brew, I was most reluctant to repeat the experience. However, as a guest in a strange land, I accepted a little enthusiastically. It was delicious. I would not have guessed it had been made at home.

Dinner finished, we adjourned to the living room and continued a far-ranging conversation. The talk turned to plum wine, which I had read about. Muriel complained that her attempts to make it when they lived in Tokyo were unsuccessful because the wine always was too sweet. She cut donw the amount of sugar, but never got the wine the way she wanted.

Kazi said that her plum wine was not sweet. She jumped up to get a bottle and insisted that I try it. She poured some over ice and gave it to me. It was lovely. It had a delicate plum flavor. It was not too sweet. It was a light, refreshing drink. When both of the Matsuos left the room, I offered sips to both Muriel and Don. They agreed that it was delicious and exactly what plum wine should be.

Our hosts reappeared with a great platter containing a huge banana cream pie topped with mountains of whipped cream. Matsuosan explained that Kazi works for a bakery and has access to elegant pastries. Kazi cut gratifyingly small slices and we all enjoyed the pie.

While we were waiting for Matsuosan to pick us up at the hotel, Muriel told me that in the past, they had sent bags of shelled pecans to the Matsuos for Christmas. However, the pecans returned to them quickly in the form of pecan cakes. After learning that Kazi worked for a bakery, she understood better. However, Muriel and Don long ago had stopped sending pecans out of frustration. In Japan, one gift requires another.

Conversation continued. Kazi disappeared and reappeared with a plate of fruit. Matsuosan asked me if I ever had eaten a Japanese pear. I admitted that I had not, though Muriel had mentioned them. Kazi returned to the kitchen and returned with both the entire fruit and one cut into wedges. The pears look almost like apples, shading in color from pale cream to pale yellow. I took one of the wedges. To my surprise it had almost the consistency of an apple. It was firm, very juicy, and absolutely delicious. It had the flavor of a pear without being insipid (as I consider the pears I have known).

During the evening, I excused myself. Don directed me to a hall off the living room. I passed the tatami-floored bedroom and found the bathroom door. I was startled to see only a urinal. Don laughed and directed me toward a door on the far side. It led to a normal western lavatory. A farther door led to the Japanese bath.

At about nine o’clock Don said that we must leave. He had to get back to the hotel for a call from his secretary in Pennsylvania. We made our adieus—sayonaras—and put our shoes back on. We all insisted that Matsuosan leave us at the railway station to get a train back to our hotel but once he had us captive in his car, he took off for the highway and drove us back to Osaka, over our protests. It was a beautiful evening with lovely people.

Friday, 25 September

The weather was as unpromising as ever. Muriel suggested that we take the train to Kyoto to see a couple of temples. She said that once we moved to Kyoto for the conference, we would not have enough free time to do everything we wanted to do. I never got used to the casual way in Japan one took a train from one city to another with no more thought than running down to the nearest Kroger’s.

We all took time to repack so that we could send one suitcase on ahead to Kyoto to await our arrival on Saturday. As I was reorganizing the Roll-aboard I had kept for overnight, I realized that my passport was in the wardrobe suitcase I had delivered to the Bell Captain. I dashed down to the lobby and, close to tears, asked if the bag had been sent. The delightful young woman told me not to worry and retrieved it. She hoisted my over-full bag onto the counter. Together we tore off the plastic wrapping, and I found my passport in the small pocketbook where I had put it for the trip to the Matsuo’s the night before.

I joined Muriel and we walked out of the hotel and into the station, bought our tickets, and boarded our train. Kyoto was a short train ride from Osaka.

By the time we reached Kyoto, it was raining. Muriel stopped at the Information Office to ask directions. When Muriel told the attractive young hostess that we wanted to walk to the shrines, she laughed at her, saying that the closest was a 25-minute walk. That didn’t appeal to us in the rain.

We emerged from the wrong side of the railway station. We had to retrace our steps, walk up, over, and back down the other side to reach our bus stop. We joined a long, long line to wait for our bus. After some delay, a bus arrived, took on a few people, and took off half-empty for some reason we did not understand. After another delay, a second bus pulled up. Most of the people in line in front of us climbed aboard and the bus departed. Not long after that, our bus arrived. We got on and were lucky enough to get seats opposite the rear door. The bus filled up, with standees packed in the length of the aisle. The bus made a couple of stops. No one got off, but more people crammed their way on.

On Japanese buses, one drops the right change into the fare box as one exits past the driver. Muriel and I had no idea how we would pay our fees since the aisle was completely blocked. We decided we would leave through the nearby rear door and run around to the front of the bus to pay our fees.

We reached our stop. Those Japanese passengers smilingly and deliberately blocked our exit. They handed us, one after the other, up to the front of the bus. The word I learned for “excuse me” (sumimasen) was used over and over and over. The two of us, muttering, made our way to the front of the bus, paid, and exited into the rain.

 

Sanjusangendo is known as the Temple of a Thousand Buddhas. This was the first time we had to remove our shoes before entering a shine or temple. We left umbrellas and shoes in places provide and followed the matting in our stocking feet.

The building had three sections. All held about a dozen tiers, each tier lined with row after row of tall, delicately-carved statues standing close together from one end of each vast room to the other. They rose in even, diagonal rows, each statue slightly different from the others in the drape of a skirt, embroidery at the neck, or other detail. All were of gold leaf, some black with age where the gold had worn away. The hands of each figure were pressed together, and emerging from the shoulder blades were dozens of tiny hands like a low halo.

We walked slowly past row after row after row of the elegant figures, marveling at the workmanship and overwhelmed by their multitude. In the center of the central hall was the principal image with eleven faces and (allegedly) a thousand arms, the smaller statues ranging out on the tiers to each side. It was a breathtaking display, and one of my favorites of all I saw in Japan.

We retrieved our shoes, walked a short distance to the main street and found a small restaurant for lunch. It was the first time I had been able to try soba, the buckwheat noodles. I found them far superior to the usual white ones, as Muriel and Don had predicted.

 

By the time we left the restaurant, it was pouring. We had directions for taking a bus to the next temple, but even the woman in the Information Office had not recommended our doing it. We found a taxi just outside. We waved, the driver opened the door, and I got in, carefully collapsing my dripping umbrella.

The driver talked rapidly, rolling his head about on a chicken neck, and gesturing wildly. I watched in amazement. Muriel told him in Japanese where we wanted to go. The driver yelled something at her and literally evicted us from the cab.

All right; back out into the rain. A second cab came by and stopped, This time when the driver opened the door, Muriel remained outside, crouching under her umbrella as she explained where we wanted to go. He also refused to take us, slammed the door in Muriel’s face, and sped away.

We huddled in the rain, pondering our next move. Muriel said that either the taxi drivers did not want to go to that shrine, or they did not understand her. She decided that when another taxi came, she would say we were going to the terminal.

One came and she did. Once we were in the car and underway, she asked the driver if he knew the shrine and could take us there. He agreed happily and delivered us to our chosen destination.

We left shoes and umbrellas at the entrance and proceeded into one of the loveliest shrines we had seen. Rooms were enormous, with massive columns, heavy beams, tatami-covered floors. In an outer corridor, a showcase displayed a great coil of heavy rope. The description explained that it was made of women’s long hair, the only thing strong enough to lift the giant beams into place.

 

We took the train back to Osaka. At Happy Hour, Muriel announced that she wanted yakitori for dinner. Don said that there was a yakitori restaurant in the maze of underground corridors and that we would not have to go outdoors. He stopped at the front desk to ask directions. The receptionist could not find one listed underground, but gave Don directions to one about three blocks from an opening. I said I would go back for my umbrella, but Don looked like such a thundercloud that I abstained.

We took off walking rapidly through one corridor after another. I never could figure out how Don knew where he was going. We emerged into the night to find that it was raining. I said I was not going out in the rain without my umbrella. Next morning I was going to Kobe to meet my friend Marjorie Gerstle and had no intention of looking like a drowned rat for our reunion. Don said it was only three blocks. I urged them to go ahead while I returned to the hotel. More thunderclouds. Don stormed back into the underground maze and we followed meekly.

I cannot describe how many corridors we traveled, how many restaurants did not serve yakitori. Tempers frayed. We looked at the mock-ups of menu offerings in each window. Nothing suited us. We went up and down, back and forth, here and there. Suddenly out of nowhere appeared a yakitori-ya.

We went in, got a table, and settled happily into the noisiest room I ever have experienced. Four young men were seated at a table on the other side of a low partition. Four empty bottles of sake stood forsaken on their table. Such joy and vivaciousness. Eventually they staggered off happily.

Don went outside with the waiter and pointed to the things he wanted to order. From looking at the models, I thought I would get one little skewer with four small pieces of beef. To my amazement we received plate after plate of skewers with meat freshly fried—breast of chicken, chicken liver, chicken gizzard, crisply fried pieces of chicken skin. The very best were little well-seasoned balls of ground chicken. I think there were some vegetables somewhere along the line, but they are not what I remember.

We had beer. We picked and chose among the skewers. Don went out and ordered more. We ended up with a delicious, happy typically man-on-the-street Japanese meal that was exactly what we all wanted.

Saturday, 26 September

Incredible happenstance put the luxury cruise ship Crystal Harmony in port in Kobe the day we were to leave Osaka for Kyoto. My friend Marjorie Gerstle was aboard as arts-and-craft instructor. We met a few years earlier when she was hospitalized in Belize after having a heart attack aboard the Caribbean Prince. I visited her two or three times daily and we became friends. We continued to correspond after she returned to the States.

We could not believe that the reunion we both hoped to have some day actually would take place on the other side of the world. We made plans by fax. Marj invited Muriel and Don to join me in a visit to her, but they preferred to continue to Kyoto early.

After the typhoon in Tokyo, I checked with Marj to make sure the ship’s schedule had not changed. At my request, Marj faxed me directions to the pier where they would dock in Kobe. The helpful hotel receptionist wrote out the instructions for me in Japanese.

I went down to breakfast early and alone. I checked out of the hotel and checked my suitcase with the Bell Captain to be reclaimed when I came back through Kobe that afternoon.

I don’t think Muriel and Don worried about my taking off for a day by myself, but I myself had no concern. I considered myself their apt pupil in Japan.

On my own, I made my way through the mysteries of the underground. Having been coached ahead of time by Don, I got the express train to Kobe. The trip took about twenty minutes. It was raining when I arrived, of course. The taxi driver was delighted to be given directions in Japanese. We found the proper pier with no problem. Umbrella raised, I alighted alongside the looming ship.

 

The Japanese security guard explained that to board over the covered gangway, one story above the wharf, I had to go up some nearby stairs. I climbed the stairs and found myself in a large room covered with blue painters’ drop cloths. I exited through the door on the other side. A pleasant middle-aged workman at the top of a flight of stairs told me that the way to get to the ship was to go down the stairs. I did, and found myself face to face with the same startled security guard. With gestures I explained my futile jaunt.

From the guard’s reaction, one would have thought that the future of Japanese–American relations hinged on his getting me aboard the Crystal Harmony. The flustered guard ran on ahead, signaling me to follow. He found another flight of stairs and ushered me up them, arms thrown wide like St. Peter welcoming a new resident of heaven. I emerged in the proper reception room, and proceeded across the gangway, umbrella sheathed in plastic in the bottom of my hand bag.

As Marj had warned me, security aboard ship was tight but polite. My bag went through a scanner. My passport was studied, my name matched on a list, and the document confiscated, much to my dismay. Despite years of travel, I never have come to terms with confiscation of my passport, regardless of how routine and temporary.

I explained that I was meeting Marj in the lounge. The officer remarked that it must be the lounge on the fifth deck. I hadn’t a clue. He tried without success to reach Marj on the phone, then asked the young man operating the scanner to escort me to the lounge.

It was large. It was opulent. Colors were muted. Crystal sparkled; brass shone. It looked like the lobby of a fine hotel with an impressive mahogany reception desk. Marj arrived quickly, having wasted time trying to meet me at the foot of the gangway.

The visit was a thorough delight. Marj‑Healthy was a Technicolor version of Marj-Ill. She is exactly my age, enthusiastic, capable, endlessly interesting. We had coffee in the café to get reacquainted. She led me through the major public areas of the ship. We went to her stateroom and, at my request, she showed me her craft projects.

We continued our visit over an elegant lunch in the almost-empty main dining room. Marj had suggested various cafes, but decided that with most of the passengers ashore, the dining room “needed bodies.” We sat at a large window overlooking the harbor, attended by more friendly stewards than three tables would need, plus the Maître d’ himself. We enjoyed Vietnamese salad and deliciously tender steak with green pepper sauce. It was far more food than I happened to need at lunchtime, especially after a diet of noodle soup.

 

We said our adieus in the early afternoon. Marj walked me down to the taxi stand. When I told the driver I wanted to go to the terminal, he replied that the shuttle bus was right there and I could take that. The shuttle attendant confirmed that they were going to the station. I got on and off we went.

We stopped on a street with shops and hotels, but no terminal. The bus driver assured me I was at the JR terminal. The shuttle attendant got out a map and showed me. I was distraught to find that I was at the stop before Kobe. The young attendant assured me that if I walked down that way and then down that other way, I would get to the station.

All I could think was that I was adrift in a foreign land where I did not speak the language, headed for the wrong train. However, walking off lunch was not a bad idea. It was only about three blocks to the station—in the rain—but I found it more than a little confusing to be in the wrong city. Don told me later that there are three stations in Kobe and any of them would have done.

I bought my ticket with no trouble, having watched Muriel carefully for many days. The next train happened to be the one I wanted and I was back in Osaka in a very few minutes. Blessing the fact that the terminal flowed into the hotel, I collected my suitcase.

I rolled my Roll-aboard merrily along the wide corridor to the flight of about eight steps leading to the JR tracks. I was easing it down, one step at a time, when a husky young girl ran down behind me, grabbed the suitcase out of my hands, whisked it to the bottom of the stairs, smiled and was gone almost before I could say “arigato gozaimasu” (Thank you).

I went to the wall of ticket machines. I got out the proper change and dropped the coins into the machine. It ate my money without producing a ticket. I did not know what to do. A women stepped out of a nearby line to help me. Without language compatibility, I managed to show her what had happened and she showed me that 1) punching a red button would result in the return of my coins and 2) I was 100 Yen short of the correct amount.

Luckily, my train was not full. I pulled my suitcase aboard and pushed it upright close to the window. The young man who sat next to me got off at the first station. For the rest of the trip I had a full seat for my suitcase and myself.

 

In Kyoto, there was no problem getting to the hotel by taxi. The Miyako is a huge, elaborate hotel up in the hills that surround the city. To avoid rush-hour traffic, the taxi driver turned off the main street and cut alongside a canal for several blocks. The picturesque waterway was lined with bowing willows and arched by narrow foot bridges between the pretty homes on either side.

Kyoto is a fascinating mix of old and new. During World War II, the allies were told that it was an historic city with no military importance whatever, so it survived untouched. Kyoto has shrines and temples numbered in the many dozens, some tiny, beautiful little old buildings nestled in the middle of an otherwise ordinary block.

We finally reached the enormous entrance to the Miyako. I have never seen so much staff in all my life. Three bowing bellman assisted me into the hotel. Without my even asking, the bellman ran and got the wardrobe bag that I had sent on ahead. When I reached my “economy” room, I found it far nicer than the ones we had in Tokyo and Osaka.

An inveterate reader of signs, I studied instructions on the back of my door. Below the floor plan of the hotel was the following message: “In case of fire, body posture lower and cover mouth with handkerchief when escape.”

I settled in for our four-day stay, then called the desk to get the Stauffers’ room number. The operator connected me with their room. Muriel answered. When I asked where they were, she said that they were right next door. I was invited over for Happy Hour, then we went down to one of the hotel restaurants for dinner.

Sunday, 27 September

Don could spend the day sightseeing with us. We went first to a beautiful old temple Muriel and I had skipped on our day in Kyoto because it was raining so hard and its main attraction was the view. On Sunday morning, the weather was better and we joined the large crowd of people, almost entirely Japanese, visiting the historic site.

The Kiyomizu Temple was established in 780, but was burned down several times. The present buildings date from 1633. The vast temple buildings stand on a scaffolding of immense wooden pillars. Its wide wooden veranda projects over a steep cliff giving a panoramic view over the trees, across a valley to the expanse of Kyoto.

Steps lead down from the main hall to a sacred waterfall, said to have healing powers. Japanese visitors, mostly young people laughing and joking, formed a line, possibly fifty people long, on the steps and walkway leading to the tiny temple below the water fall. They waited in happy patience for their turn to catch a bit of the cascade in a long-handled cup.

A man, perhaps in his forties, took his turn to drink. The young people laughed and clapped, and he smiled across at them, obviously their teacher. There was much commotion while he went through the ritual drinking and rinsing of the cup.

 

We next went to a Buddhist Temple, a huge one that, like many, had a Shinto shrine incorporated in its compound. A service was in progress before a few worshipers. There was much clanging of gongs and beating of drums with one deep, heavy beat after the other.

We stopped for lunch just inside the temple grounds at a funny little open-front stand with room for perhaps five guests. It was painted red and festooned with banners proclaiming things in Japanese that we could not read. The stand had one long table with a bench and individual cushions for seats. We were the only guests and received the delighted bows and moans of pleasure from the elderly woman who seemed to own the stand. I finally had the cold soba (buckwheat noodles) I should have ordered with Muriel another lunchtime. One wound a few strands onto one’s chopsticks, then dipped the lump into a tiny cup of sauce. It was delicious.

 

After lunch, we visited the starkly austere Ryoanji, most famous of all Zen gardens. Its perfectly raked expanse of white sand displays fifteen rocks in five units in a scene of the most exquisite artistic balance. Visitors speak low, if at all, as they seat themselves on the long row of steps to contemplate the garden and lose themselves in meditation.

The gravel path leading to the Zen garden wound through woods and a garden where the ground cover was a rich green moss, rather than grass. Women knelt on the moss gently sweeping up the typhoon debris of leaves and twigs with long, soft whisk brooms.

 

We had to return to the hotel to register for the conference and dress for the opening reception. Muriel was furious at registration to find that my name tag read “Industrial” instead of “International” Development. The obliging hostess went to her computer and made me a new tag—with the same error. The third effort was correct.

We dressed for the evening. Muriel wore a new midnight-blue dress with gold buttons, slim cut, most becoming. I wore my rose (almost red) “good” shirtwaist with Barbara-Bush-style pearls.

The reception was a beautiful party. The buffet was elaborate. Liquor flowed like water. I returned to my room a little before the Stauffers. Don had been working the room and said he wanted to “graze.” They knocked on my door about thirty minutes later and invited me over for a night cap.

Monday, 28 September

The conference started in earnest. Don left early for a men’s breakfast. Muriel and I left a little later for the women’s continental breakfast in a room several floors and even more corridors away from our rooms. Fortunately, the hotel had stationed a bowing employee to direct us at each turn along the route.

After breakfast, we were the first people on the tour bus. We had not seen any familiar faces waiting in the lobby, so proceeded to find seats. Gradually, the other wives and guests arrived, except for one woman who joined the tour on a street corner several miles later.

Our tour guide was a delightful, tall, rather austere woman with a surprising sense of humor. She told us to call her Sue because we couldn’t pronounce her name. Sue’s talks on the bus were fascinating anecdotes of history or culture, rather than a stale recitation of dates and statistics.

One of her tales, appropriate in view of the weather, was that in Japan the man normally walks three steps ahead of his wife. The only time they walk side by side is under an umbrella. Japanese young people wish for rain as an excuse for closeness. The graffiti in school bathrooms, Sue said, is a drawing of an umbrella with the names of a girl and boy.

Sue remarked, “Japanese universities hard to get into and very easy to get out.”

One of the guests asked Sue about Zen. She replied, “May I explain why I cannot explain about Zen. It is not in the mind, but in the spirit. If you go to Zen garden and feel something, that might be Zen.”

When we drove past the Imperial Palace, Sue commented, “The Emperor not so rich as other royal families. Several years ago, royal couple—I won’t say who—came and stayed in the Kyoto palace. They were supposed to stay three nights. After first night, they moved to Miyako Hotel.”

 

We stopped first at the Nijo Castle, the castle described in the novel “Shogun.” It is enormous, wooden, with exceptionally large rooms. Screens and walls were exquisitely decorated with paintings by famous Japanese artists. Floors were covered by tatami.

This particular shogun had far more gold that the emperor. Many of the walls were covered with gold leaf, applied in four-inch squares. Artists then painted over the gold with a powder mixed with a sort of glue.

One spectacular room is called the Tiger Room, because of its magnificent mural. Tigers were considered emblems of strength. There were no tigers in Japan. The Japanese heard about the great striped animals from the Chinese, so their artists drew pictures of an animal that was fairly close to a tiger. However, the Japanese thought all tigers were males, and that leopards were female tigers. The mural demonstrates this confusion.

The wooden hallway floors creaked as we walked from one sumptuous gold-leaf-encrusted room with tatami-covered floor to the next. The “nightingale floors” were designed to warn of the faintest approaching footstep. A shogun won his position by killing the previous shogun. Thus they all lived in constant fear. Every room had a built-in compartment where loyal samurai hid, ready to protect their master in case he were attacked.

Few saw the shogun’s face. During audiences, he was seated behind a screen. The shogun received more privileged guests in an enormous room. For them, he was seated on a dais, itself the size of a small room, without a screen.

We followed a corridor lined with windows with wooden bars into the women’s quarters. There life-size, costumed figures showed the shogun and his maid servants. The maid servants were virgins who never married. If a maid became involved with a man, her throat was cut. The maids all were guards and wore knives in their obis (sashes for kimonos) to protect the shogun if necessary.

The shogun had a wife and several mistresses because it was necessary for him to have a son to whom to leave his holdings. When women were brought to the shogun for his approval, his asking “What is her name?” indicated that he was going to take her as a concubine.

The shogun’s bedroom, where he slept with his wife, opened off the room we could see. If he took one of his concubines to his bed, two of his maid servants went into the room with them to protect the shogun in case the woman were a spy and attacked him, and to make sure that nothing untoward was said.

The Nijo Castle gave a vivid education in life in the shogun era.

 

We went next to a textile house. On the first floor was a demonstration of the ancient art of weaving the material for kimonos and obis and another demonstration of modern looms.

On the floor above was an enormous showroom with a vast array of textiles and fabric items for sale. The kimonos and obis on display were breathtaking. Muriel and I saw no one buy them. The kimonos cost about 1,000,500 Yen.

Finally, we were taken to the small, comfortable theater on the third floor. Muriel and I were lucky enough to have front-row seats as we watched a style show of kimonos. The models were beautiful, stylized little dolls of Japanese girls. Each kimono was a work of art, gracefully displayed. The finale with all the girls together was a kaleidoscope of colors.

 

We returned to the hotel and Muriel and I went to the Danish restaurant on the ground floor for lunch. We found it early in our stay. Few people seemed to know how pleasant it was. As usual, we found a table by the large windows easily.

After lunch we visited a shrine recommended by Matsuosan. He said it had ghosts. We didn’t see them. Originally it was the home of a nobleman and the emperor had stayed in it, which made it very special. The rooms were surprisingly spacious, with beautiful paintings on the walls. At some point, the owner had given his home to the monks.

The gardens surrounding the house were exquisite. Whenever one looked out a window, one saw a garden, no matter how small. The grounds also had a “dry lake,” a large area of coarse sand, carefully raked, with artistically placed rocks, or a rock with a bit of greenery, or a small bush. As we left this house, the rain turned into torrents. We grabbed the nearest taxi and returned to the hotel. I felt I had seen as many shrines as I needed to see.

 

After a restful late afternoon, we went to a “light reception.” We did not know what that meant, but assumed it meant limited food. It did not. It meant beer and wine only; no hard liquor. The vast buffets offered as many superb edibles as had been available the night before.

After the reception, Don and Muriel continued to a conference dinner. I returned to my room.

Tuesday, 29 September

There were glimpses of the sun as Muriel and I walked the endless corridors to breakfast. The sun was hidden by the time we went to the lobby to join our tour group. To our delight, the vast room was full of kimono-clad women. They all wore simple every-day kimonos, most in shades of brown or gray, but one a gorgeous not-quite-emerald green.

In the bus, Sue told us that when railways first were built in Japan, the people were unfamiliar with them. Daytimes a man with a flag walked ahead of each train to warn the inhabitants. At night he carried a lantern and the train had a net to scoop up anyone who fell in front of it.

Our first stop was the Golden Pavilion. Muriel had been unhappy to see it listed on the conference tours because she said it was in such dismal repair that it was not worth seeing. Muriel was the most amazed of all of us to see the gleaming pagoda, newly re‑sheathed in gold leaf, sitting on its tiny island, brilliantly reflected in the lake that surrounds it.

The many-storied Pavilion is surprisingly small and delicate, with a golden phoenix perched on the pinnacle of the roof. It was built in the late Thirteen Hundreds as a pleasure palace for the shogun. On his death, it was given to the monks and turned into a Zen temple. In 1950, it was burned down by a young monk. The present Pavilion is a faithful reconstruction. The lake itself is a picture of beauty, with the perfect tree here and the perfect rock there around its edge. One of the pine trees is 600 years old.

Visitors may not enter the Pavilion, but we walked through the magnificent gardens. At the foot of a flight of steps, Sue told us, “When you return, remember to turn left, or goodbye.”

At the end of our tour, Sue passed out long narrow strips of paper with Japanese writing on them. She said, “Take this paper home and put it up on the wall and you don’t have to lock the door.” The top character is for luck. When I unpacked after my trip, I found the little strip and secured it in a back hall next to a beautiful calendar of Japanese gardens. I continued to lock doors. However, when Hurricane Mitch veered southward after threatening Belize with complete destruction, I looked speculatively at my little Japanese good luck strip.

 

After lunch, we packed to leave the next day. Both men and women reconvened at 3:00 pm. Sue had told us to reassemble in the “oval lobby.” Someone asked her where it was. Sue replied, “Not up, not down.” Somehow we all found the right place.

We were to have a tour, then dinner in the garden of a palace. I wore the teal jersey I had been saving for the semi-informal occasion, but wore low-heeled shoes. When I reached the lobby, I found that mine was the only dress. All the other women were in slacks. The pants to my sage suit had remained behind in Palo Alto because I was sure I would not need them in Japan. I was mortified at being overdressed, but felt slightly better once I belted my trench coat around me.

As we were waiting, a sumo wrestler, identifiable by his bulk and top knot, walked heavily through the lobby, followed by his retinue.

We arranged ourselves on two large buses and were driven a considerable distance to the charming Buddhist temple of Byodo-in. Again, it was a private home that had been given to the monks many centuries ago. It was built at the edge of a lake.

The temple is relatively small with a beatific Buddha. Behind him is a canopy of inlaid mother-of-pearl in graceful arabesques. Figures of musicians and dancers form a famous frieze along the walls just beneath the ceiling.

Our delightful guide Sue led us around the lake to the far side, where we could see the elaborate facade of the temple. Long extensions on each side of the main building, all with gracefully up-swept roofs, gave the impression of a bird taking flight.

At each end of the peak of the main roof was one of the strange figures of a phoenix. They were identical and looked more like roosters than like the fabled birds. Sue explained, “One phoenix is a male and one is a female. The one that is not a male is the female.”

 

We returned to the buses and were taken to a magnificent, five-story castle up on a hill. We gathered in front of a giant pair of closed wooden doors. On each side were flaming lights in what looked like a metal basket on a pole. The doors opened, and out came the president of the host organization, a rather portly gentleman with glasses, dressed as a samurai. There was a roar of delight from the conference delegates. The president made a charming short speech of welcome, then invited the gathering into the gardens.

We walked through gates, up a long, easy flight of shallow steps. Stationed at each side periodically were maikos, geishas-in-training, in full regalia. Maiko is the first stage of learning the social skills of a geisha. The girls go into training when they are about sixteen. The first year, the girls wear the heavy white facial paint, but are allowed to paint only the lower lip red. By the second year of training, they are allowed to paint both lips. The five girls at the reception wore full lip makeup. Sue pointed out that despite their elegant kimonos, all of them had simple bows at the back of their obis. She said that when and if they completed the strenuous course and became geishas, they would be allowed to wear the traditional butterfly bows. The girls learn singing, dancing, playing the samisen, and entertaining in both Japanese and English. They are gracious hostesses, nothing more.

The walkway turned toward the garden itself. Two young men in samurai dress were stationed at the corner. Some of the delegates stopped to have pictures taken with them.

The garden was lighted with Japanese lanterns. Low tables covered with red cloths filled the extensive area. A wide gravel path curved around the border with one food kiosk after another lining the far side. People stood by the dozens waiting to be served. A large percentage of the crowd made a dead set for the yakitori booth. It ran out of food before we got there, much to Don’s dismay.

Muriel, Don, and I settled on one of the tables close to the path. I had been a little nonplussed at the in-between height of the tables—too low for sitting in non-existent chairs and too high to sit on the grass beneath. Apparently they were for perching while one enjoyed one plate after another from the buffets.

One of the Maikos came over to speak to me. She was a delightful young girl determined to practice her English. She insisted on getting a plate of food for me. She succeeded in selecting too much of everything I did not want to try. She fluttered about me, settled me back on our table, and watched as I gallantly ate. She was prepared to do a second run when someone came up to ask if she would pose for a picture with them. My Maiko bid a gracious goodbye and I fled the moment her back was turned.

Muriel, Don, and I went into the castle when we finished eating. It was far lovelier outside than in. Like the others we had seen, this one had been gutted and made into a modern museum.

We managed to get the first bus back to the hotel. The ride was not as long as we expected.

Wednesday, 30 September

We had an early farewell breakfast. I took a train alone to Osaka, where I caught a flight to Narita (Tokyo’s airport) to connect with my Japan Airlines flight back to San Francisco.

I arrived in the States the same day we left Japan, thanks to the magic of time zones. Carli and Tom met me and, to my amazement, so did the Stauffers. Tom had recognized them on a TV display of arriving passengers. Carli and Tom met them at the bottom of the escalator and they all waited for me.

I had a final goodbye with the Stauffers before they left to catch their flight east. I talked all the way as Tom drove back to Palo Alto.

I spent another three days with Carli and Tom before returning to Belize—recovering from the long flight, sharing tales of my trip, just enjoying being with them. I was out of Shopping Mode and into Packing Mode.