It’s a pagoda.

It was both frightening and exhilarating to arrive in a country without a guidebook, with no knowledge of the city I was in, and with only a hostel address. It has become my routine, but this time was different. This time, nobody spoke English, and I couldn’t read the signs! I was able to ask some airport staff about where to go, but their limited vocabulary was confusing. The passengers waiting for the train with me had no idea I was asking them if I was in the right spot. I was lost. I was confused. I was frustrated. I could either burst into laughter or hysterics. I chose laughter.
I decided to relish the moment. No plan and no idea about my next destination was such a big departure from the full schedule of classes and dinners and parties and meetings I had in LA. I felt like a feather, the wind blowing me wherever it thought I should land. Yippeeee!

It was night when I found the correct metro stop and walked alone to my hostel through a gorgeous Zen temple. I knew I should walk through the red gate because the hostel website had described each landmark on my route from the metro stop. Since they don’t often use addresses or street names, ’small bridge’ and ’pastry shop’ work instead. I noticed some of the small Buddhas were dressed in clothing and red hats. I don’t think they would have been too excited about the fashion choices had they not been statues.

I spent 5 days observing, walking, and mostly eating. I awoke each morning without a plan, walked to a bakery where an old Japanese man with a bandana tied around his head would make me a steaming Japanese sweet bread. It was huge. And sometimes I would eat 2. Just because! I spent days wandering the Tokyo streets, finding little neighborhoods with tiny shops run by old men with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. I got very lost in huge neighborhoods where the crowds of trendy teens put my muddy Nikes and tattered jeans to shame. And every time I saw some interesting food, I ate it.

For lunch I would walk into a traditional noodle shop and say, “Gimme anything you got that is vegetarian.” The pair behind the counter wouldn’t understand, so I would have to say “vegetarian?” Then they would make an ‘ok’ sign with their hands, and I would say, “No fish. No meat.” Then they would say, “No fish? No meat?” and they would cross their arms in front of their chests to make an ‘X’. Then I would make an ‘ok’ sign with both hands. And we would all smile and nod as if we’d just found the last answer to the Sunday crossword. It was a daily routine, and I found myself looking forward to it. I don’t know what I ate usually, but it was always good.

And then there were the pastries. Lordy, lordy, lordy the pastries. Who knew you could put red beans inside a dough and it would create a tiny explosion of weird sweetness? The Japanese knew, that’s who. I tried every pastry in sight: the ginger ones dipped in some brown stuff, the hard pink ones, the slimy ones. Never did I find myself disappointed. I usually teamed up my pastry exploration with a drink from one of the million vending machines strategically placed around town. You can get hot tea with milk from vending machines. And it’s good! They really think of everything, and I could not resist trying it all. With no labels that I could read, each time I put something new in my mouth it was a surprise. Would it taste like bananas or fish? Would I buy another or spit it out?

I spent some time in the Tokyo-Edo museum. Tokyo was called Edo before it was “Westernized.” According to the museum, Japan was ruled by samurai who funded the entire town and kept everyone in check, adhering to a strict caste system depending on the job serving the samurai. I know nobody wants a history lesson, but I think it is funny what comes next. Japan was closed to other countries, only occasionally talking with China. Then, in the 1800s, Americans came over and bullied the Shogun into signing a trade agreement, starting an influx of Westerners into a completely Occidental world.

This of course revolutionized the Japanese government and way of life– the style of dress, the architecture, the food. The Japanese even started to cut off their top knot, the ponytail they wore high on their heads, just to look more Western. Isn’t it crazy how contact with the white man changes everything? We are some dangerous people, we white folk. In a way, I am glad the Japanese don’t really speak English. They are keeping some of their culture sacred. And it’s fun to talk in hand signals.

Japanese pancakes (and me trying to be Japanese trendy)
on Valentine’s day with my dates, new friends from Australia.