Shopping for Buddhas
Japan
Absentmindedly I watch Tokyo slide away as the airplane banks and heads out towards the Pacific. I sip my beer and watch as the Land of the Rising Sun disappears beneath the clouds. I sigh and I am not sure if it is from sadness or contentment, for things that have been or for things that never were, and perhaps could never be. Japan always leaves me feeling this way – confused, bewildered and, more often than not, slightly stunned.
Garden Buddha
Japan is a land of striking contrasts. It’s a land of penitent monks begging outside subway stations whilst office workers rush off to the latest hot bar to slurp noodles with their colleagues; it’s a land of toilet slippers, business cards, corporate bribery and religious statues wearing bibs. It’s a land of plastic food, Hello Kitty and exquisite manners. It’s a land of seventy types of seaweed in the local market and yet no word for claustrophobia or the female orgasm. It’s a land that bombards you with advertisements and technology yet pointedly refuses to really welcome you to its bosom – you may visit, but do not get too comfortable.
I had been in town for ten days. It was hot and sticky and I was feeling terribly homesick. Jet lag had driven me almost insane; the bags under my eyes were almost the size of suitcases. I hadn’t slept well for days. I felt like I was on the verge of hallucinating and that someone was ghostwriting my life. To pass the time between meetings and lying tossing and turning in my bed I wandered around Tokyo looking for the perfect Buddha for my back garden. Yes, I explained, to the bemused shopkeepers of Tokyo’s funeral parlor district (where the best stone Buddhas can be found), I am looking for the perfect garden Buddha, you know – something to brighten up my garden. They didn’t know, but helped me never the less. They seemed relived not to be dealing with grieving relatives for a change.
Japanese Sign
Between meetings and arranging for Buddhas to be shipped home, I drifted aimlessly in and out of the pottery stores that line the kitchen shop district. One or two small, yet elegant, pieces caught me eye and after much chewing-of-lip and counting of coins I decided that, although they weren’t quite as good as a Buddha, they would still brighten up my house a little and give it a soupcon of Asian intrigue.
The girl at the cash desk took my items and handled them like they were the most precious items in the store when, in fact, they were actually closer to tourist junk than I might like to admit. The literal translation of the kanji prominently displayed on her name badge was ‘black eyes’, which was wholly appropriate. She blushed deeply when I commented on her beautiful eyes and carried on wrapping my items with what can only be described as loving care. I wanted to comment on how well she did this and the swan-like grace of her movements but that would have stretched my Japanese. Instead I stood back and let her finish her task whilst she hummed ‘Norwegian Wood’ to herself. The wrapping, when completed, was probably worth more than the contents. Japanese customer service, especially from Ms. Black Eyes, I thought, is wonderful.
Later that night I sat, with someone very special, in a private room of a discrete, and very exclusive inn hidden deep in Ginza which was so tastefully conceived that it could only have been Japanese. The kimono-clad waitress, who had welcomed us to the inn like long-lost friends (an image which wasn’t too far from the truth as the place was so discrete that it wasn’t actually marked on any map and had taken ages to find) gave us cold towels to mop our brows, ice water to quench our thirst and left us alone to peruse the menu which was written in the most beautiful of Japanese calligraphy. To the uninitiated it looked like an atlas of clouds. The waitress too was full of grace and wore her kimono and cordless earpiece with all the elegance of a catwalk model. She could have been the poster child for modern Japan – a perfect blend of tradition and technology – beautiful and efficient, but totally unavailable.
The food almost transcended an eating experience and mimicked high art and was almost as good as the company. Dish after dish of enticing food arrived whilst my friend brought me up to date with five years of gossip. By the time we left both my stomach and heart was filled with contentment and the night had the creamy texture of a dream.
My final day was spent at a friend’s parent’s house. She has spent six months with me in the UK and her parents wanted to thank me personally for arranging visas and smoothing out red tape. I thought they might have been cross that their only daughter had vanished for six months from their lives but they had lived vivaciously through her letters and e-mails home and were clearly ecstatic to be able to repay some of my perceived kindness with a day of over indulgence at their dinner table. More than anything a Japanese person respects the sanctity of the home and it is truly an honor to be invited in. It is even more of an honor when the hosts have found out all your favorite foods in advance and loaded the table so much that it groans. This is a typically Japanese thing to do: make your guests feel so welcome that they are almost forced to shed a tear when they leave the table and then pretend that such kindness is common place.
Conversation was easy. I spoke passionately about the trials and tribulations of working in Japan and the many problems I had experienced since I had arrived in the office. After much sake, beer and, surprisingly, Hungarian wine, we came to the conclusion that two Japans exist – the ephemeral land of friendship and honor and the stab-your-colleagues-in-the-back-with-a-blunt-instrument of corporate Japan. I was gently reminded that one was inevitable and the other was worth searching for. I was also reminded that I was mature enough now to accept that this was the way Japan would always be.
Japanese Packaging
Before I could leave I was loaded down with presents; kimonos for my son and his cousin, jewelry for the GHG, bags and bags of rice crackers and candy for me and some gifts for my parents. They were wrapped so well that even Ms. Black Eyes would have been proud.
It was with heavy heart and even heavier belly that I took the train back to my hotel. The train was packed with suited businessmen, school girls in sailor suits and big socks, kimono clad ladies of a certain age, and hip young girls glued to their mobile phones. We sped through the neon womb that is Tokyo by night (think Blade Runner meets Emmanuel) and no one paid any attention to me, arms full of presents and heart full of happy memories.
The next day I left Japan. I was still tired and homesick but felt light hearted. I had survived ten days of work and had cemented life-long friendships. There wasn’t much more I could have asked for in such a short time – especially in Japan.
About the Author
Philip Blazdell has been travelling for the last fifteen years and would like to stop now, thank you very much. His travels began when he followed a girl in nice purple pyjamas to Istanbul and got into all kinds of trouble with her parents. Despite marriage proposals in Las Vegas, arrests in Germany, and lust in the dust in more than one third-world shit hole, he has never looked back. Well, not that much really.
Philip currently divides his time between his home in Middle England, SFO International Airport and some grotty little town in the Netherlands that is best not spoken about in polite company. He constantly worries about using the word ‘awesome’ too much whilst in the USA and dreams of a day when he can go a whole day without resorting to Diet Coke. His greatest ambition is to raise his son to be a much better person than himself and to see Liverpool string a run of wins together. At least one of those, he believes, is possible. He can be contacted, when not bouncing around the world at 32,000 ft: nihon_news at yahoo dot com and his own personal homepage, www.philipblazdell.com, is updated daily.
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