shy impressions
of a knee-worn traveler
Eyes have never
seemed so strange as these of the Tokyo bartender we're staring
into. The startled, almost defensive look we're receiving rather
makes me want to get out, fly back to the unshy eyes of the 'red
necks' we've just left. Yet inside this tiny snack bar is where
we are, where we are beginning. How do you begin? I guess you
really don't . . . though this cup of badly-pronounced sake
surely must, at its tiny bottom, have a word or two of grace.
Yet such an uncomfortable silence while we just sit, over-wiping
our hands with the hot towels, and occasionally whispering to
each other, 'Say something in Japanese.'
As we're sipping the second cup, I'm suddenly hearing myself
blurt out konnichi wa. Later of course we laugh remembering the
word means good afternoon instead of good evening. But it must
be one of 'those' words for instantly all the staring eyes are
shifting from defensiveness and shyness to interest, and even to
amusement and laughter.
Tokyo—
talking about Basho
with a bartender.
In our country, whom
do you talk with about poets and painters? Bank clerks? Taxi
drivers? Bartenders? Don't answer. Admittedly, half of our tiny
vocabulary is just pure name dropping: Buson, Shiki, Sesshu,
Issa, and luckily tonight—Basho.
Everyone seems to know his name. So with the aid of our
dictionary, these paper napkins full of my upside-down, backward
attempts at kanji, the name Basho, and an unnamed, uncolored,
unidentified frog—we
are actually conversing in Nippon-go, even if it's only sukoshi.
Second evening
in Japan—eating
sakana:
raw!
Slowly, unsnapping
the dark window curtains, I begin to remember how, as a child, I
always awoke with just these feelings: sleepy excitement,
mystery, anticipation. Now, peering out of the train so early
this morning, I can only stare.
First dawn
in Japan:
sumi-e!
Over there
somewhere . . . mountains
in the mist.
Spending a summer
here is like nothing else. Living in a large city where only a
few speak our so-called 'universal' language and trying to find
a house, a used refrigerator, steak knives, bobby pins, and the
price of eggs is like . . . well, just like I said. Now,
stalking the store, row by row, looking for such obscure and
crazy things as pickles, cream cheese, maple syrup and cornmeal
. . . is this bag full of sugar, or salt? Gads, I forgot my
dictionary again!
On my shopping list
words,
but on boxes and cans . . .
Walking down the
busy street, stopping occasionally to peer into glass cases at
the mock-ups (pre-pop art, I think) of noodles, raw fish,
octopus legs, and ice cream sodas, we're suddenly overcome with
the desire for a hamburger. This place? No. Here? No. Surely
here. Wiping our hands and faces with the warm towels, we admire
the flowers and pretend people aren't watching us.
Staring
at the menu:
kanji, kana, and yen.
At two I arrive at
the home of a slightly stooped lady. I'm told she's a flower
master, and as I watch her slim fingers tuck strange stems into
empty spaces I can almost feel the life of each plant. On bended
knees I bow to the flowers and to her. My friend is saying the
teacher wants me to try it. My face must be bright red as my
fingers fumble the simplest movements.
She watches me, smiling warmly, then returns to the shaded
corner to wait until she's needed. I'm trying, but the flowers
fall as soon as I place them. I shift from one knee position to
another and I'm very warm. It's raining outside as each hour
goes by. I give up. I shyly call sensei, and she comes on worn
knees, gently pushing, shifting and leaning the flowers into a
delicate unit. Mumbling, I manage to say, arigato gozaimusu.
Slowly, one by one, I remove each flower, hoping to learn
something in reverse.
Beginning
flower arrangement . . .
the rainy season.
*
Sweeping the tatami
our new maid
practices her English.
Neighbors
eyeing my weedy garden—
the heat.
Holiday fishing—
the boatsman nods
in the heat.
In the heat
my neighbor
waters his garden rocks.
