Tata Takanawa

Downhill from the Manor at Nino Hashi (Second Bridge) how convenient to catch the No. 96 bus.  Swipe your pasmo (travel pass) and in 15 minutes you are delivered within a block of the Tokyo American Club.  Preschool students in blue-and-white checkered uniforms fill the front seats with their mothers, smart  in navy; as they alight in Takanawa Ichome by the large supa (supermarket) the boys shout in gratitude to the driver ("arigatou gozaimashita"). Off the bus rolls, past the final resting place of the 47 Ronin (samurai without a daimyo) to Shinagawa Eki (think: Penn Station) where most passengers hop off. Next stop is ours Gotenyama Koban Mae (police box) with its daily report on display of train accidents--casualities in black ink (over 100), fatalities  in red (1 or 2).

A final cappuccino "without cinnamon please" on the third floor of TAC (aka the Tokyo American Club) with Mme G. After three years of weekly meetings to exercise body and mind with the study of shodo (calligraphy) under the indulgent eye of Nakamura-sensei, both of us are packing.  Our families landed within weeks of each other, and now we shall take off in the same month. Ages ago in London I first heard of TAC from Hiromi, who rhapsodized about the camaraderie it promoted.  Like a campus under one roof it offers classes and entertainment, as well as dodgy institutional food. Within months I was sitting on committees and  working on policy until Mme G reminded me that we ought to be taking advantage of the cultural programs.

"TAC is an island," observed another tomodachi-san who has been a member for 20-odd years. While she has never lived in the US, she has a taste for things American; her craving is satisfied by regular visits to TAC since she would never dream of leaving her family home. For gaijin struggling with nihongo on a daily basis, what a relief to have an English-speaking retreat complete with books and magazines that are as expensive here as Tiffany bracelets. This melange of native and foreign folks make a point of visiting this island within an island, which has temporarily moved out of its home in Roppongi during a major renovation. Nowadays American members are thin on the ground, and some joke  that the A in TAC could be deleted. Refurbished TAC reopens in January 2011 when the wrecking ball demolishes this interim building. As Mme G and I got up, the server grabbed my hand to wish me well. "Kyotskete kudasai (take care), kyotskete." Dropping a thank you note in the Tell TAC box naming many of the people who made this island special, I walked out into the humid afternoon and Mme G dropped me at the Narita express.

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!

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.