The Art of Rubbish

    Tokyoites divide trash into burnable and non, forcing everyone to consider what is going into the bin. How to determine a nonburnable, beside lighting a match to it? Residents at the Manor rely on the in-house expert who keeps the trash room neater than the average teenager's bedroom. No matter how fastidious Manor folks are about separating their detritus, Mr. Clean inspects each garbage bag to prevent mistakes that might incur fines from Minato-ku (harbor ward).  A 27 page booklet on the subject explains more categories than one might expect. Sadly, the rules shifted last year, confusing gaijin (foreigners) even further. Sanitation workers will not accept garbage unless properly divided, sorted and wrapped. On collection days plastic bags are rounded up in blue netting to deter gangs of crows from pecking their way in, which they manage to do in any case.

     Bins in the Juban come in pairs to allow for proper disposal. Once on a mountain hike with nihonjin, I dangled a banana peel carelessly. "Carry it home," I was advised. "But if we don't see you throw it away, you may."  (Confession: it ended up under a tree.) Three years ago when Minato-ku's streets gleamed, I observed a child call out to a woman riding a bicycle; a tissue had fallen from her pocket. She stopped to collect it. Since the economic downturn of 2008 litter seems to be on the upswing, with cigarette butts the biggest offender. Wide as mailboxes, street ashtrays invite customers to congregate by corners since the law requires smokers to stand and puff together. Perhaps they prefer the bus stop for the Number 96 to Shinagawa, judging by the number of butts now underfoot.

       "I started out in computers," Mr. Clean told me in perfect English. "When my mother fell ill, I switched to this job since it gives me more time to look after her."  When he noted how many empty cans of essa (cat food) this Manor resident adds to the building's refuse, he pulled out his keitai (cell phone) to share photos of his three neko-chans (cats)-- adopted strays. (Tokyo has a tribe of well-fed stray cats, looked after by legions of women on bicycles rather than a non-profit org.) Lately, our refuse has become heavy on paper with high school practice exams. Is it only ten days until seniors don red gowns for graduation at Yokohama International?

Shinjuku Salvation Army

      Since nihonjin shun used goods, the secondhand market in Tokyo is a goldmine for gaijin.  A fellow amerikajin from the academic ladies club (an avid kimono collector) shared the secret of her source: The Salvation Army in Suginami-ku. Coveting the elegant kimono worn by  ladies traveling along the Namboku subway line en route to tea ceremony, ikebana lesson or wedding, was there much gold up north? One gray Saturday noon shodo tomodachi Madame G and I zoomed past Shinjuku via Yamanote (think: London's Circle Line) with transfer to the Marunouchi ("inside the circle") to dig for treasure. Exit at Nakano-Fukimicho turn left and at the Buddhist temple bear right 15 minutes past a hospital and another temple in Wada ni-chome to a small concrete building with a security guard outside. The gaijin looking at used bicycles confirm that you are there.

     Inside the small building we found a dazzling array of items in immaculate condition, both Western and nihon. A quick sweep of crockery, with plates of every shape and design, yielded a quick treasure. Next, the kimono seller worked with Mme G for half an hour to find the correct length for a Western lady plus a good match for the obi (wide sash). A friendly nihon shopper lingered with us, and advised. At last, after much discussion in broken nihongo, each of us was pleased with her purchase. On to the stall of sensu (hand fans), invented 1300 years ago in Japan for the aristocracy. When irises are in bloom everyone whips out a fan (including men) to counteract the humidity. A delicate combination of bamboo and washi, lovely L-san of Yokohama presented me with a stunning sensu so elegant in its box that I am reluctant to disturb it. Ding-ding! Closing time at 2 PM cut our hunt short. Will there be a local eatery to provide a late lunch?

    Only a block away, Mme G slid open the door of a soba (Japanese noodle) place. Absolutely empty, the hostess beckoned us in and we ordered the lunch set at Y 750 (about $9) with warm udon (wheat) rather than cold soba (buckwheat) since the day turned raw. The tray arrived with spring roll, udon, dipping sauce and small salad. The hostess told us her aunt lives in Los Angeles and that her younger brother owns the restaurant. As if expecting us, she was fully made up and camera ready. Since the shop has no business card, she gave us the take-out menu and we promised to return. Will there be time before musume-chan's high school graduation in two weeks? Time is running short.

Kanji Crunch

     Five terms of Thursday shodo (Japanese calligraphy) classes closed successfully with a project blessed by a  hanko (red seal) imprinted on the piece by Nakamura-sensei. Only Sensei can apply the seal of approval, always with fanfare. Hanko time starts with a lipstick smile and outstretched bejeweled hand. Using scrap paper Sensei stamps out a sample and moves it around the page for position. Unlike Western signatures, hanko do not always sink to the bottom of the work. If kanji (Chinese characters) spell kaze kaoru (fragrant breeze), for example, why not place the stamp floating upwards? For a shikishi (board) hanko is the size of a postage stamp, for wall hanging shodo nearly Post-It size. When Sensei finds the right spot she tamps the hanko with red ink and aims it above the sample, moves it aside then dives down. Pressing for more than a few minutes she finally lifted it up: "Kireii! (Pretty)!"

    "I hardly slept last night," confided Sensei, resplendent in Marina Rinaldi purple checked jacket, South Sea pearl on a chain by her throat. Three of the seven students are leaving Tokyo and our lessons. A youthful 75 Sensei does not want to take on new students. "You have improved so much this term," she generously said (mada, mada--not so).  Every week she interpreted our moods through our work: New Yorkers have shrinks, Tokyoites have shodo Sensei.  Knowing of Sensei's sweet tooth, I ordered a Japanese strawberry shortcake (heavy on the whipped cream). "Now I am the happiest Sensei in Tokyo," she clapped after many photos of the students, the work and the cake. We all agreed to meet in two weeks time for a farewell luncheon, since all key occasions in Japan are marked by ceremonial meals.

   After class, tomodachi-san kindly offered a ride to the local art supply shop to find a frame for the final kanji ("frosty lake").  Ten minutes down the road to Gotanda the shop clerk made suggestions. "This frame mixes Japanese and Chinese parts, which is why it's half the price of a 100% Nihon frame. Is that OK?" tomodachi-san  inquired. "I'm from the US where everything says Made in China-- no problem!" I replied. Disguising her personal reservations at my choice, she dropped me off in front of the Manor. What a surprise to stumble into a going-away party in the lobby for one concierge who is moving across town to Hiro-o. "I shall miss this building with its attractive ladies," he charmingly said. June is almost here: Only two weeks until Musume-chan (daughter) graduates from Yokohama International School!

All Aboard the Shinkansen

    Hop aboard the shinkansen (bullet train) and plunk an obento (lunch box) on your tray table from Tokyo Eki (station), with its dazzling assortment. A premium ticket (think: airfare) affords an assigned seat or, for less, take your chances for the unreserved car.  Half an hour into the ride a snack seller in snazzy uniform pushes a trolley through the car and bows deeply at the exit. Zip 100 miles northwest and switch for the last 100 miles to a slower train; four hours over tracks ends up in the capital of Ishikawa Prefecture, namely Kanazawa ( "gold marsh")--a town built on wealth. When the kaze (winds) are strong, as this past week, prepare for delays. A fellow passenger with a gray beard kindly translated the lengthy announcement that warned of a 45 minute late departure. Unpack a 1,000 page novel by James Clavell, Shogun.

     Such a rainy town is the home to the Kenroku-en ("garden of six elements"), one of The Three Great Gardens of Japan. For two centuries the Maeda clan refined this 25 acre gem that includes the oldest water feature, a fountain that operates by natural water pressure. Who doesn't know the six aspects include space, serenity, scenic views, coolness, design and, of course, venerability? End of May means ayame (iris) along the banks by the Flower Viewing Bridge. Optimal viewing time is 7:30 AM before the thundering hordes arrive with megaphones and cameras. Japanese parks are devoid of squirrels and chipmunks, but feathered friends (wagtails, spot-billed ducks and grosbeaks) appear for the patient photographer. Across town at the expensive 21st Century Museum of Contemporary Art ($15 entry) what a surprise to bump into the gray beard from the shinkansen (bullet train) at  the gruesome Alternative Humanities exhibit by Jan Fabre and Katsura Funakoshi. The pool installation permits guests to look up through the glass bottom into the water.

     Stroll the geisha quarters and stop in a samurai home for a nominal fee,then turn a serendipitous  corner to bump into one of the few remaining workshops of a wagasa (parasol) maker. Cross legged on his tatami in silence the artisan creates the skeleton of the graceful object, then attaches the washi (paper). Inside the parasols the fretwork is intricate and multi-colored. Our man is pleased to open a photo album that displays famous customers, after all, the cheapest parasol costs ni man en (about $225).  Nothing is for sale in the shop, everything is on order for the depato (department store) -- zannen (too bad)! Consolation prize at the station on the way back to Tokyo, thanks to suggestion of Judy Steeh, is a few boxes of the Kanazawa ginger snap from Koida bakery. Oishii!!

Aoyama Tree of Stars

     "Lunch in May will be held at Hoshi no Naruki (Tree of Stars), Porto Aoyama building, Omotesando, Exit B2."  On the fourth floor of an office building, Eating Out Group met for its monthly gathering at noon, as usual. Although the group favors Western food this month was the exception: Modified kaiseki (multi course Japanese meal) in a private room of a popular eatery for Y3,100 ( $35, no tipping in Japan). Top restaurants often perch above the ground floor in Tokyo, which is startling to gaijin. Western Muzak (Danny Boy, among others) was incongruous and distracting, so the server kindly turned down the volume.    

      When six Tokyo ladies first created Cooking Group 15 years ago, they met at each other's homes. Once the husbands retired, they shifted to Eating Out Group. Very different in their interests, they  met through the academically oriented women's club. Their objective was to have a good excuse to wear jewelry and speak English over lunch, which meant inviting one or two native speakers along. One gaijin member lasted nine years! Ever since dear Wanda-san left town two years ago the onus has been on me; few gaijin can commit to a monthly lunch.This month a "graduate" from Australia made her annual visit, plus another local gaijin was able to make the time.

   "My mother told me that breakfast is gold, lunch silver, dinner is bronze," said pianist-san (who has been playing Chopin concerts all year to honor his 200th anniversary). Isn't it funny that Western wisdom advises eating breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a pauper? Breakfast may be considered the most important meal yet we all prefer lunch. According to Haha (mom) we must eat 30 different things a day for good health. The chef at Hoshi no Naruki insured one day's supply all in bite-size portions in our meal, including some slippery potato and other dishes unknown outside of Nihon. What falls into the bronze category? "Bronze must be warm food, and not as healthy as gold," said pianist-san, who has slimmed down considerably by riding her bicycle around town. "For example, red wine. It's the most important part of dinner." Gaijin, take note.

Sumo Smackdown

     Sumo fans are used to the rough and tumble, unlike coddled Tokyo American Club members who came for a genteel lecture on the sport and found themselves in the midst of a slanging match. Gaijin guest, a couch potato sumo, arrived early with his okusan (wife) and nihon publishers. The Library Committee welcomed 20 to the event, including omnipresent TAC president (think: Obama). Reading from The Joy of Sumo, Mr. Benjamin invited the audience to interrupt with questions as they arose. A smug looking woman (think: Lily Tomlin) was pleased to raise her hand.   

    "Why on page 99 do you refer to the grandfather of the yokuzuna (highest rank sumo), yet 10 pages later you call the same man uncle? Please explain the incest here?" she posed, licking her lips. Sososo,  Benjamin acknowledged the mistake. When asked which part of Japan produces the most wrestlers, the author answered that they come from villages at extreme ends of the country. Smug lady piped up: "Then how do explain that three of the all-time top sumo hail from Tokyo?" She cited names and dates. Sosososo, Benjamin admitted that except for a few Tokyoites, most hail from the hinterlands. After she further reduced our joy in  his book, the author asked: "Could you please give us your name?" Ms X! "Friends, please meet my greatest critic, Ms X, the author of a competing book on the subject. She has been hounding me ever since my book was published 20 years ago." Perhaps Ms X might allow Mr. Benjamin to continue and offer her own lecture in future? I suggested. "Ha! Her book is out of print while mine lives on after 20 years!" spluttered Mr. Benjamin to Ms X's dismay.

     Much like a sumo match (a few minutes of posturing ending with a shove that bounces one roly-poly combatant out of the ring) our evening came to an abrupt halt. "Charlatan!" shouted Ms X, snapping the stem from her wine glass. A Library Committee colleague (and a practitioner of Israeli self-defense) invited Ms X to leave the premises and allow the rest of us to enjoy the rest of the evening. As a members only event, who brought her? The nihon publishers were forced to admit that they did: "She is a reporter for a sumo publication." Unlike past author events when guests mingle and the author signs books, the room emptied out as if for a fire drill. "Rich people don't like to spend money," opined Mr. Benjamin to his hostess. "I'd love to come back another time since we come once a year to visit my in-laws."  Final lesson about sumo: Bow to the victor.

Lost in Translation

     No sooner did the digital clock blink 11 AM than four elegant English speakers arrived for ongoing coffee and conversation with baked treats from the local Paul in Roppongi-ichome station. (The fifth member had to look after her granddaughter as professional babysitters are not in plentiful supply in Tokyo.) "Are we early?" asked chef-san, to the secret amusement of musume (my daughter) eavesdropping from her room. Despite best efforts to prepare coffee, photocopy word games and produce a new word list there always appears to be one more thing to do as they tiptoe in. "Water for everyone?" The sudden rise in humidity requires hydration. Two preferred carbonated water, two preferred natural and which type is healthier? Impossible to determine based on this sample.

    Last week ended with a question: Why do Americans say "you know" so often? You know, that's a good question. Fellow Americans, any ideas? What do you know, it is a colloquialism that we fall back on when gathering our thoughts. This week I selected a quiz from the BBC British Council on the subject of food shopping. Bananas and grapes come in bunches (fusa), but how strange that Westerners buy meat by weight.   In Tokyo meat is sold in single portions to avoid waste. White and dark meat of a chicken was a new concept. Milk comes in a carton, but only in litres and half litres. Who needs a gallon? Chef-san, who once lived in Westchester, reminisced about jumbo packages of foods including the "buy one get one free" specials at the Gourmet Garage. After 6 PM Daimaru Peacock supa (market) discounts perishables but the choice is unpredictable.

     Lively conversation led to a new word, anecdote, "an amusing or interesting story about yourself." Two came up about milk: Obaasan (grandmother of 5) recounted a friend who was served milk (mi-ri-ku)on an airplane after asking for beer (bi-ru), while Chef-san's husband was served six glasses of milk after ordering a milk shake! Shake sounded like six? Traveler-san once asked for a map in New York and was presented with a mop! Giggles all around. Looking at the paper napkins on the table provoked the final question of the coffee: What do you call the character on the napkin? That's a smiley face. In Japan he  has a name (Niko Niko chan). Gomen nasai no time for Pooh-san , but the new Feng Shui books were distributed with great hopes for the future. Sayonara! Raishu ( next week)! 

      

Day Trip to Tochigi Prefecture

          Forty members of the bi-cultural social club boarded a coach headed north to Tochigi Prefecture on a steamy Tuesday. First stop Ashikaga Koen (park) famed for yellow fujii no hana (wisteria), second stop the Kurita Museum known for Imari exportware. No stop at the outlets, which are also located in the area. With take off scheduled for 8:15AM , we four co-leaders rendezvoused at 7:45 "or else."  Around 7:30 the lower lobby of the Hotel Okura was deserted, since the earlybird members decided to perch at the coffee shop. Arriving like clockwork, handing over envelopes of money with two hands in exchange for name tags, except for the American straggler. "I shouldn't have stopped at Starbucks," said she, breaking two rules (punctuality and public eating).

        By 10:30 our fine ladies invaded the 20 acre park, admiring the ancient yellow wisteria, the ike (pond) with its bullfrogs and fields of giant clematis. With the sun beating down, some opened parasols. Is 11:15  too early to find a shady spot in which to devour her o-bento (boxed lunch)? Oishii! Back in the bus for the hop to Mr. Kurita's museum down the road. With the information tags only in nihongo how lucky for me to follow behind a siruba (silver) member who now teaches Western cooking. Raised in New York and London, she was shipped back to Nihon with her mother when World War II broke out.  "How can I forget March 10, 1945," she suddenly said, recalling the firebombing of Tokyo. "Mother Superior sent me to fetch some classmates. I couldn't eat for a week." Her diplomat dad stayed in Europe to work on a peace agreement.  When the family reunited they were pleasantly surprised by his big belly, she confided, testimony that he had been well looked after by all parties.
    
      Imari is the port from which the red white and blue porcelain made its way overseas and into palace drawing rooms. A Korean potter named Yi Sam-pyong invented porcelain clay and Queen Victoria ended up with boatloads, as witnessed by the displays at the V & A (Victoria and Albert Museum). Imari ware is miles away from chakai (the Way of Tea) with its simple elegance and unique chakan (tea bowls) prized for imperfections. The tea scoop, or chashaku, a sliver of bamboo, may carry the same price tag as a set of china. "The Empress called for a cookie recipe but she said it didn't turn out right," the siruba member told me. Sure enough, it was the butter: HIH (Her Imperial Highness) melted it on the stovetop instead of letting it soften on the counter. Do sumo wrestlers care for cookies? Thursday evening only a baker's dozen in the audience have signed up to listen to our sumo expert at the Tokyo American Club.

Traveling Back to old Edo

     On a dry Saturday afternoon a Tokyoite may abandon her computer for a brief stop in a strolling garden. Walking toward the bay from the Manor through deserted streets (imagine: Wall Street) within half an hour the greenery seeker reaches Kyu Shiba-rikyu on Shi Tei-en. A ticket of Y 150 (about $2) affords an afternoon on the grounds until the gatekeeper locks up at 5 PM. Four centuries ago a samurai in the service of the Tokugawa Shogun made his home at this city address. Using garden designers from the coastal town of Odawara, the samurai created an urban oasis that became Shiba Detached Palace in the 19th century until the Showa Emperor presented it to the city in 1924.

    A splash of blue confirmed that summer is around the corner as ayame (iris) dotted the central ike (pond), home to giant koi, turtles and spot-billed ducks. Desperate for handouts koi (carp) the size of dachshunds swarmed to the shoreline with mouths agape. A visiting cormorant with wings wide open dripped dry. Shujin (husband) coveted the stone paths that direct strollers along the proper route as well as the snow-viewing stone lantern. Perched upon an oyama (special vantage point), we watched a team of archers emerge from the range at one corner of the garden. Closing time came quickly, and the few visitors neatly queued through the low gateway.

    Next stop, the supa (market) Daimaru Peacock via Zojoji, the Buddhist temple circa 1622. Wise shoppers know that after 6 PM prices on sushi and other perishables are slashed, so there is a predictable scrum. No reason to head to the vegetable stall, although a quick stop at the boulangerie for the piping hot baguette. How nice to be welcomed back to the Manor by the kindly concierge, O-san, with his ready smile. Will the inbox reveal a sudden surge in sign-ups for the lecture on Sumo at the Tokyo American Club in just five days time? Or has Sumo lost its audience in Japan, is the question.  

The Small World of Tokyo

    "In nihongo what is the word for 'acquaintance'?" I inquired at Beginner Conversation. As I rushed to the class in the crisp morning, I greeted someone on the street whom I met only yesterday. For English speakers a stranger does not qualify as tomodachi (friend) upon a single meeting, even if that meeting took place in the garden of the Australian Embassy as was the case.  For Tokyoites friendship begins with ni-san-kai-a-ta hito (two or three times seen person), I found out. "Perhaps you will become friends in future if you continue to see each other," said my gentle native speaker.

    Becoming a tomodachi is a process. At a Sayonara Soiree for two ex-pats, what fun to run into the tomodachi who introduced me to yaki imo (baked sweet potato). On autumn evenings little pick-up trucks pop up around Tokyo festooned with lights as the driver sings: Yaki imo. In the bed of the truck a wood oven produces luscious hot potatoes for Y 300 (about $4) and up (depending upon size). After an outing with the Wild Bird Society of Japan tomodachi and I shared one three winters ago. She had just marked her kanrecki (60th birthday) and retired from teaching English. One year later tomodachi had to call off a wedding for her younger daughter, rent a suite at the Imperial Hotel and formally apologize to the family of the jilted groom. The following year that very daughter married the man who had stopped her from making that fatal mistake.

     "I have a new granddaughter, four weeks old!" tomodachi announced, producing a photo album of a healthy akachan (baby). With a cupboard full of kimono, no worries for tomodachi that they will be put to good use. Over macha (green tea) another time she had explained basic kimono etiquette (long sleeves until marriage, bright colors until age 40, etc). "Please come and see my garden soon, " she offered a precious invitation as we drifted back into the room. Dewa mata! (Later)

Paper Trail to Ito-Ya

   E-mail and texting have not yet replaced sumie (ink) and washi (paper) for Tokyoites. Next door to Bulgari in the shopping district of Ginza (imagine: Fifth Avenue) rises a mecca for admirers of fine stationery called Ito-ya. Eight floors plus mezzanine of temptation: Ground floor beckons, much as any Hallmark on Lexington Avenue, with Western greeting cards. Venture upstairs and the adventure begins: Fountain pens on the mezzanine, art supplies on the floor above, diaries and desk items next, how about that postcard album for only Y 800? Keep climbing until the washi floor. On display heavy stock kozogami in seasonal colors and designs with the durability of cloth are available for just a few hundred yen per sheet (starting about $5).  What a good investment!

    Before leaving Ito-ya any self-respecting shodo (calligraphy) student stops by the section for practitioners of the Japanese variety. Packages of creamy mitsumatagami are a doddle at Y 750 (about $10); sheer as onionskin this disposable stock is meant for the practice of kanji and haiku. Over 100 years ago in the Meiji Era it was used for paper money. Delicate sumi-e (inksticks) of pine or oil soot mixed with nikawa (animal glue) measures about 1 x 3 inches. Elementary school children use the basic Y 700 variety; for $150 elaborate sticks come embossed with floral designs or covered with gold leaf. Time to stock up on a few shikishi (square boards) for the next project.

    "Sensei, may I practice kaze kaoru ?" I asked at this week's shodo class, a reference to the fragrant breeze from fujii (wisteria) and tsutsugi (azaleas) wafting over Tokyo. With a few strokes in orange ink she produced the sample for the two hours of copying that ensued. Last week I advised classmates to say tondemonai (don't be silly) when Sensei praised their work, which one student politely said after completing a haiku about cherry blossoms. New phrase of the week was waza-waza sumimassen: Thank you for going through the trouble. Smiling Sensei packed up for the return trip to Yokohama, pleased with a Western bouquet presented by a classmate.    

    

Underground Rumbling

      Before I moved into the Manor, I had no idea that a subway station could be polished to a high sheen. Vast experience on the grimy Broadway IRT and London Circle Line inured me to litter in subway cars, buskers strumming guitar on platforms to the tune of spare change and beggars soliciting donations. Descending into the Azabu Juban eki (station) I pass a uniformed cleaner scrubbing the stairs and yellow indicators that lead the blind to the turnstile. Expert moppers keep white stations pristine; escalator handrails glisten thanks to the detail at the bottom pressing a wet cloth to it with both hands. Mr. Clean could not keep up the pace.

      With the bar for cleanliness set so high, standards of behavior are expected to match. To clarify expectations Tokyo Metro issues a poster every month with a different message about proper behavior. Rumor has it that the series began due to mascara rage: An older woman objected to a younger one applying eye make-up in transit. A shoving match ensued, which triggered a poster of a woman seated in a subway car using an eyelash curler above the caption: "Please do it at home." So followed the yellow-and black series of what is not acceptable (listening to loud headphones, drinking, taking more than one seat etc) by 35 year old artist Bunpei Yorifuji who considers his work a form of manga. With a copywriter he sifts through letters of complaint to come up with the monthly output. Edward Hopper inspires Yorifuji's work.

     As Tokyo enters the month for gogatsu byokii (May madness), the number of suicides interferes with train service due to jumpers. For the average fare of Y 190 ($2) the underground traveler anticipates no problems, and even one minute delay triggers a series of apologetic announcements by the immaculate conductors. Suicide season is due to stress accrued in April, when many new recruits start jobs. Families of the jumpers are billed for the interruption to subway service, which is so precise that commuters go to a web site (Jorudan route finder) to map their travels. To date Yorifuji has not addressed this display of what some might consider rude behavior.  

  

Carnations for Haha (Mothers Day)

     My very first Mothers Day in Japan, what a shock to receive a bouquet of.... red carnations. Where I grew up (the Upper West Side of Manhattan) carnations are distributed in green for St Patrick's Day, pink for Easter and various colors in jars at downscale eateries. On occasion a carnation is appropriate on the lapel but this is not the flower commensurate with the effort of labor, childbirth etc. Marking my fourth Haha no Hi (Mothers Day), I stand corrected: Red carnations are both takai (expensive) and the correct flower of the day for Haha (mom). Musume-chan (daughter) presented me with a poodle-shaped artificial red carnation and a pair of fishnet tights. Kawaii! (Adorable!) How thoughtful that shujin provided the ikebana vase perfect for one stem.

     Since musume-chan had to study for IB (international baccalaureate) exams, shujin (hubby) agreed to an outing to Oi Wild Bird Park next to Haneda Airport (the local La Guardia). Binoculars and hats in the backpack, off on the Monorail to Ryutsu Center on this early summer day. A Y 300 ticket gained entry into a well-tended park with three ponds full of heron (ao sagi), egrets (ko sagi), cormorants (kawau) and plovers (ko chidori). Viewing stations included astronomer-strength telescopes allowing visitors to peer into the eyes of the egrets as they swallowed lunch. A birder tapped me on the shoulder to point out a ko same bitaki (flycatcher).

     Hopefully within the Imperial Palace Masako-sama enjoyed the day with her musume-chan, young Aiko who is having issues with third grade. Rumor mongers say that with all his family problems the Crown Prince should cede his position to his younger brother. At Oi Wild Bird Park 8 year old girls wove clover chains with their mothers, and took photos with grandmas under parasols without a care in the world. Was anyone beside the mother of the author thinking about Sumo, A Thinking Fan's Guide to the National Sport?  Certainly, author David Benjamin will understand if the room at the Tokyo American Club is half empty when he comes to speak in 10 days.
  

The Burden of Praise

    Most Thursday afternoons at the Tokyo American Club Nakamura-sensei shares the secrets of shodo (calligraphy) with six to eight disciples. In orange ink she produces a sample for each student to reproduce in black sumie. Not exactly handwriting practice, shodo is a meditation. Rumor has it that Sensei is nana-go-sai (75ish), despite her dark curly tresses and smooth complexion. Thanks to Mr. Nakamura, a novelist who spent his early career as an executive with JAL (Japan Air), Sensei spent much of her early marriage in Germany. As a result she shops at Marina Rinaldi and favors Ferragamo flats.

   "What do you say when a nihonjin gives you a compliment?" I posed to the gaijin (foreign) classmates as we were grinding sumie on inkstones. "Such as when someone says you speak Japanese well?" (Our francejin, Mme G, out of town this week, was sorely missed.) "I always say Arigatou gozaimasu (thank you very much)!" replied one amerikajin. "Sumimassen, the better answer is mada mada (not yet) or tondemonai desu (don't be silly)," I said, repeating what  I found in a book about colloquial nihongo. Accepting praise is presumptuous in a country that knows that there is always room for improvement.  Every classmate jotted down these two phrases.

    By the end of the class each student replied mada-mada or tondemonai when Nakamura-sensei praised her work. "Tee-hee," holding her hand in front of her face, Nakamura-sensei scolded me and asked that I bring different words to class next time. "If all the students were nihonjin this is exactly how they would react," whispered tomodachi. After the class a quick stop at the TAC Library to check on how many members signed up for our upcoming Meet the Author lecture on Sumo revealed shocking news. Two years ago our visitor Alice and I savored an afternoon at crowded Sumo central in Ryogoku, seated uncomfortably on the tatami mat at Y 10,000 apiece (about $120). Only five people have signed up! With just two weeks until our guest speaker arrives, time to get into high gear to fill  the other 40 seats.  

Japanese Slimming Secret

      A paltry 2% of Nihonjin are overweight vs one in three Yanks and one in four Brits, and most of the fatties are probably professional sumo wrestlers. At the annual checkup the isha (doctor) alerts patients to a potential metabo (lism) issue. Yet an informal survey based on many meals with tomodachis (friends)confirms that this is a country of good eaters. No need for doggie bags, thanks to the symbiosis of smallish portions and healthy appetites. Each meal follows the same pleasant script beginning with Itadakimasu ("I humbly receive") said by everyone at the table before digging in. Predictably, the next word is Oishii (delicious). After each morsel (including every grain of rice and slimy konyakku) has been gratefully devoured, the term is Gochisosama  (thank you for the meal).

    "Eat until you're 80% full," advised tomodachi: "Hara hachi bu is what our mothers teach us from a young age." Without insulting the cook , everyone is gauging the fullness of her tank.  Stopping is key, which leads to the first corollary of the rule: Do not fear the scale. "We are at our lightest before lunch, at around 11 AM," confided another tomodachi who travels with a scale. Most tomodachis weigh-in both AM and PM; if they don't like the result it's cabbage soup (or slimy equivalent) for a week. Second corollary: Travel by bicycle. In this hilly town, that's a lot of work.

   On May 5th, Kodomo no Hi (Boys' Day), the last day of Golden Week, two gaijin (foreigners) headed for Tonogayato Gardens. One of nine Metro Gardens in Tokyo (properties that are the equivalent of the UK's National Trust) a smattering of  visitors paid Y 150 ($2) to enter yet another Mitshubishi place, this one in Kokubunji. At 1 PM the bamboo grove was full of lunchtime visitors polishing off o-bento (lunch boxes) filled with pretty compartments washed down with bottled green tea. Thanks to Mme Pompadour bakery in the station for making lovely sandwiches -- gochisosama!  

1000 Year Old Fuji (Wisteria)

    Only two weeks ago the classic dance Fuji Musume (Wisteria Maiden) was performed at Kabuki-za, the landmark hall in Ginza, to a sold out house. Seated musicians played koto and drums as a top onnagata actor brought to life the 19th century tale of an innocent girl flirting with stage wisteria, ending the solo with a cup of sake. This month sadly Kabuki-za is history as it closes down to begin a three year renovation project, and Tokyoites celebrating Golden Week are searching out real wisteria in the far corners of the city.   

   Twenty minutes out of Shinjuku station (think: Grand Central at rush hour) on the Keio Line a tree grows in Fuda that supports the "1,000 year old" wisteria. From the eki (station) the scent of the ancient flower leads to Kokuryo-jinja, easy to spot beside a four-lane highway.  The shrine shop sells the usual amulets, including an ema (plaque) for writing a prayer to hang on the prayer rack. Admirers capture the delicate purple flower close-up on their keitai (cell phones), or climb the highway overpass for a bird's eye view. Crossing the Nogawa (river) the suburb turns into a country lane with well-tended gardens and seed shops that make for a pleasant stroll.

    What a surprise to reach civilization again and join hundreds of pilgrims at Jindai-ji, the 8th century water temple with a sacred pond. Surrounded by restaurants selling soba (buckwheat noodles), the local dish, family groups wait their turn in long queues. Rounding out the sensory experience at the top of the hill sits the Jindai Botanical Garden. In honor of the holiday the entry charge is waived, which means that visitors are pouring into the grounds. Yes, miles of fuji (wisteria), tsutsuji (azaleas), plus giant peonies and a greenhouse of exotic blooms. The appetite for flowers sated, Tokyites head back to Shinjuku where for a mere Y 550 the appetite for Japanese curry finds satisfaction. Itadakimasu!  

Sanuki Club

     Azabu Manor faces Roppongi i-chome, a neighborhood where skyscrapers dwarf single family homes huddled below the hush of the Shuto Expressway. Prince Charles, a stickler for tradition, would not approve of the mishmash that is Tokyo! Salvador Dali,on the other hand, would applaud the bizarre mix: Immediately below our Manor terrace lie rows of modest homes, some barely two arm-lengths wide. Predictably, by 8 AM the women of Azabu have hung out the laundry to dry on a rooftop or balcony. Behind the laundresses rises a cement slab eight stories tall:  At sundown a lamp appears in each window and every morning futons lean on the windowsills to air out.  Rather than Alcatraz this grim building was identified by one knowledgeable tomodachi as the Tokyo Sanuki Club.

    Tokyo is a town of private clubs, but the Sanuki Club is open to the public: It was designed as a ryokan (inn) for people from Shikoku, south of Tokyo it is the smallest and least populated of the four islands that comprise Nihon. Shikoku-ins come in by the busload, spend the night in the dorm-like setting at a reasonable rate and snap each other in front of the gray building upon leaving. "The Sanuki Club is famous for its udon restaurant," added tomodachi, referring to the noodles that are as long as shoe laces. Shikoku boasts hundreds of sanuki udon shops, and at the moment this dish is enjoying a boomlet.

    After staring at this cement rectangle for three years, I persuaded two tomodachis to meet me for a bowl of udon one sunny day during Golden Week. Penetrating beyond the gray exterior we entered a tasteful, traditional interior. The udon shop, on the mezzanine, offered a pretty lunch set for Y 1,500, which challenged this gaijin's ability to successfully lift and swipe the noodles into the dipping sauce. Secondly, the requisite slurping sound was difficult to replicate with the correct gusto. After nibbling a variety of delicacies served on small dishes, we repaired to the main floor where low wooden chairs allowed for a relaxing cup of coffee. Outside in the garden a trio on Japanese flute provided an impromptu concert. For one afternoon, we were transported to Shikoku.  

Azalea Matsuri

     Azalea bushes have overtaken Tokyo. Florescent purple and pink tsutsugi lining every street take over like weeds, observed one tomodachi last week. Along Hyugazaka in front of the Manor a hedge of hot pink bushes blaze as far as the eye can see. Despite their profusion, flower viewers are obliged to make a pilgrimage to the Nezu Jinja for the Azalea Matsuri (festival). My rendezvous with two dear tomodachi falls on one of the rainest days of the year. But what about this storm? e-mailed worry-chan tomodachi. "No problem," e-mailed cheerful-chan tomodachi.  The three of us enjoyed ohanami (cherry blossom) under gray skies, and a little weather would not stop us now. 


    In raincoats and boots, each under a kasa (umbrella), past the campus of Tokyo University down the zaka we strolled to the Nezu Shrine. Since 1705 the shrine has been a landmark in the northern part of town. Under the red torii (archway) and over a footbridge, 3,000 azalea bushes in bloom lit up the side of a hill and contrasted with the  kasa-carrying flower viewers. Turtles lolled in the pond and, despite the mud underfoot, visitors posed and took photos of each other. No one in  Japan is camera-shy! For Y200 we were permitted to climb up the path to more closely inspect the variety of tsutsugi including one named for Aiko-sama, the young princess whose mother is too depressed to leave the Imperial Palace. Afterwards, we paid our respects at the shrine, designated as an Important Cultural Property.

     As no outing is complete without a sit-down and a snack, we repaired to an old-fashioned coffeeshop run by an older gent. How nice to have the place to ourselves! Tomodachi opted for the mitsumame, the allegedly healthy yet cloyingly sweet dessert topped with molasses, while I went for the yogurt and fruit. We stayed so long that the trusting proprietor had disappeared upstairs, probably to watch sports on terebi (TV).      Worry-chan gifted each of us with a precious CD of her father singing Western music and at the eki (train station) we promised to meet again at iris time.