The following story is based on a true account that occurred in the Spring of 2013.
In 2013, I had the incredible opportunity to travel to Japan. It was amazing for a multitude of reasons, but mostly because it truly put Asia on my map as a destination. Before I boarded my flight for my first trip to our most eastern ally, Asia was never on my list of hot spots, or must see’s before I die.
Now? Well, now, I’d go back today.
The food, the people & culture, the geography... they were all quite awe-inspiring, and proved to me that such a beautiful country, with such a rich cultural history, is one that should be appreciated, and yes, visited.
On my sophomore trip to Japan, I decided to take a day trip to the city of Nikkō within the Tochigi Prefecture.
For those of you who don't know, which is probably the majority of people even reading this, Nikkō is a gorgeous, tiny, mountain town north of bustling Tokyo. Tiny in population, with only around 90,000 people spread throughout its entire area. While it is massive is geographical size, being Japan's third largest 'city,' the majority of its mass is covered in dense national forests. There were two main reasons I decided Nikkō would be a worthwhile day trip to get out of the beautifully chaotic city limits of Tokyo. The first being that Nikkō is known for its beautifully lush forests. Its most popular shrines literally appear out of nowhere as you are hiking through miles upon miles of thick, cedar trees.
The second, and more well-known, reason for visiting Nikkō? The original 'See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil,’ three wise monkey carvings. They are found perfectly intact at the Tosho-gu shrine originally built in 1617.
Something even I knew about.
3 some-odd hours, and ¥4060 later, I stepped off the train in Nikkō, Japan.
As soon as my feet touched the Daiyamukō train station platform, and I took my first deep breath of fresh, Japanese, mountain air, I heard it. A small burst of noise in the distance...
“Amerikahitodesu!"
What the fuck... Then I heard it again.
"Amerikahitodesu!"
Then, as I realized where the strange sequence of sound was coming from, I saw him. The shortest, chubbiest Japanese man in all of the ancient, Japanese land was approaching me. In a full sprint.
The excitement that filled his eyes was something I hadn't seen since watching my Dad witness the ill-fated Houston Astros make the World Series in 2005, before the subsequent heartbreak of being swept by the Chicago White Sox. His smile ear to ear, his arms waving in the air, and his eyes... his eyes dead locked on mine. When he finally arrived to the Amerikahitodesu he had so intensely sought, his exhaustion never allowed him to miss a beat. He didn't let the massive gasps of air he desperately needed from his frantic sprint slow him down for one single second.
"Are [breeeeath] you [breeeeath] Amerikahitodesu?! Are you [breeeeath] from America?" He proclaimed. I don't know if he actually was or not, but I always remember him gripping both of my shoulders as he asked my face. Which also happens to be the best way I can describe what this man was doing.
"I am," I answered, "are you ok?"
"Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" He turned away from me, threw his hands to the sky, and let out one last exasperation, "AMERIKAHITODESU!”
I am partly ashamed to admit it, but a slight smile creeped across my face. Simply admitting to this clever, little Japanese man that I, by virtue of doing absolutely nothing, have apparently made this man’s day filled me with a funny joy, and slight sense of pride. Yes, I am an American.
“What state are you from?” He asked in near perfect English. I wasn’t initially aware, but apparently English is taught in grade school throughout Japan, and as I learned during my time there, everyone is very excited to speak it to an Amerikahitodesu.
“I’m from California.” I replied.
“What city?”
That’s awfully specific for a stranger, I thought.
“Los Angeles?” I curiously replied. The man exhaled, with a sense of content and relief that I couldn’t quite understand.
“I visit San Francisco for my birthday last year. I had amazing time. Everyone so nice. All food so good. Everyone so nice. I had amazing time.” I didn’t really have any words, other than the repeating thought of thank God everyone was so nice to you, because in my general experience a lot of Amerikahitodesu are total assholes. “Nikkō is my hometown.” The man told me. “It would be honor to show you my hometown. I had amazing time in America, I would want to repay that to you here, now.”
How fucking lovely. This man came to America for his birthday, had a wonderful experience and would now like to pay it forward to this stranger Amerikahitodesu. Beautiful. I told him that I would be honored for him to show me around his hometown, and agreed to his only condition that I tell the people of America how beautiful Nikkō is. He apparently thought I alone could help boost Nikkō tourism.
He informed me that in addition to myself, there would be a small Australian family joining our tour, and that I should meet him back right at this very spot in one hour’s time. Eleven-hundred hours, or eleven in the morning in Amerikahitodesu terms.
For me, this was perfect, because to be frank I hadn’t had any coffee yet that morning and had just stepped off a three or four hour train ride from Urayasu in the Chiba Perfecture. An hour of waiting meant I could find myself that elusive cup of coffee, and still have about forty-five minutes to do absolutely nothing. That’s exactly what I sought out to do.
Nikkō is a unique town in that there isn’t a lot there. Not unlike Old Towne Orange, in Orange County, California, or Big Bear a little further east. The idea of both of those places is that you can find some shops, and antique stores, but there isn’t much else. Enter Nikkō.
As I walked down what I hesitate referring to as “Main Street,” I noticed the small town’s pattern. Antique store, convenient store, lamp shop; repeat. Each building completely unique in its design, and likely varying widely in age. The town completely silent and still, regardless of the fact that it was only around ten o’clock in the morning on a weekday. It could be six in the evening on a Saturday, and there may be one more person walking the streets, giving the area a total of one person walking on the streets. Despite it’s complete lack of energy, there was something so beautiful about it, walking quietly through an empty street of a town that outdates my country of origin.
It was around the time that feeling of complete inner peace and rest was beginning to pass that I saw it; my beacon and the reason for my being. Sitting just a little further down the street I found a lone coffee shop. I knew it had to be a coffee shop because there was a small, pink and green flag hanging outside of the main entrance door, slightly blowing in the cool breeze of the Japanese, mountain air. Excited, and ready to awaken with a sip of warm, bean water, I hustled my way down the small street.
When I arrived, I slid the small door open, and stepped inside. As cultural custom expected, I removed my shoes, and left them by the door before stepping into the establishment. At a quick glance, I could tell this place was cozy, no doubt taking after it’s more hipster, American brothers and sisters.
A small couch lined the wall filled with photos and cool pieces of Japanese art. Two smaller tables with adjoining chairs rested near the opposite side of the room. A small fireplace filled the space with a gorgeous, warm layer of comfort. I opted to take up a small amount of space on the couch, as I noticed I was the only patron currently inside. It was a very small town, after all, and it was a weekday. I wouldn’t expect the joint to be bustling with customers. There only strange bit that I couldn’t quite shake was the lack of presence in workers to greet me as I entered.
From what I had gathered, Japan is a very courteous country. Just simply walking past a business during operating hours warranted a wonderful greeting from at least one to two employees standing near the entrance.
“Kon’nichiwa,” was the usual suspect. Sometimes you would receive the more confusing, “Onegaishimasu,” which I am fairly certain translates to “please.” There was no one near the entrance of this particular coffee shop, nor any worker just inside the door to help take my winter coat.
Nevertheless, I took a few steps over to the worn in couch, removed my backpack and coat, and took a sunken seat into the cushion. After a few moments of still not being greeted, or even acknowledged, I pulled out my laptop and decided to try and sneak in a little downtime work.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint rustling in what I assumed to be the kitchen area of this shop. Plates clinking against each other, no doubt porcelain, or some other precious material. Forks, sliding off a dish and clanking against the metal of the sink. Water rushing from the faucet, cleaning crumbs of pastries and foam stained mugs.
“Kon’nichiwa..?” I confidently spoke then only real phrase of Japanese I knew.
The faucet water abruptly cut off.
Confused, I leaned over the table, and looks directly to the doorway, expecting at any moment my Superman ability to see through walls would finally make it’s appearance in my adult life.
Nothing.
Silence from the kitchen.
I cleared my throat, gently, and spoke up again .
"Kon’nichiwa..?”
The creak of the wooden floor made someone’s presence known, if the faucet and dishes hadn’t already. Another creak told me that they were taking a step closer to the door. Closer to see me waiting for their assistance.
Finally, the white, wooden door slowly moved towards me, one small inch at a time. After what felt like an eternity waiting for this door to swing open, she finally revealed herself.
The sweetest looking, oldest, most adorable, little Japanese woman I had ever seen.
She was either forty-six years old, or one hundred and seventy-five, I couldn’t tell. She had a beautiful, albeit confused smirk on her face, perfectly long, white hair, and a tiny cooking apron. She still wore her dishwashing gloves, one being green, and the other yellow.
After a few moments of strange, but again, undeniably adorable eye contact, I spoke one final time.
“Kon’nichiwa. Eh… coffee?” For as much as I consumed it, even on this trip, I never actually took the time to learn the Japanese word for coffee.
The sweet old lady didn’t budge. She didn’t break eye contact. She didn’t move.
I wasn’t sure what to do, or say for that matter. All my brain could decide to do was to pantomime myself drinking a cup of joe. With the swallow, belly rub, and “mmmm” to match.
It must have communicated my desire accurately, because after a few more moments of intense eye contact, she slowly disappeared back into the kitchen area.
Well, that was strange. I dove straight back into my work without missing a beat.
It only took a few moments for my awkward concerns to be squashed. The sweet, small, wonderful Japanese woman slowly crept back into the main dining area with the most glorious, and unnecessarily impressive tray of items I had ever seen.
Fresh fruit, puff pastries, fresh baked bread, cookies, cheeses, fresh jams, and the most important aspect of this delicious spread; a full pot of coffee.
A wonderful, lovely woman she was, indeed.
She effortlessly set the heavy tray of items down on the small table just in front of the couch I sat on and I couldn’t remember the word for “thank you.”
“Oh, wow, thanks!” I proclaimed instead.
The sweet, ancient woman audibly giggled, and held her hands to cover her smile. I reached my hand towards the coffee pot handle, when I felt a sudden sting on the top of my forearm.
The old, lovely woman had slapped the shit out of my arm.
“Teineide wa arimasen,” the wonderful, physics defying woman said with an intriguing sing-song cadence. “Īdesu ka?”
“Oh, thanks,” I awkwardly smiled and laughed. I have no idea what she is saying, but she seems pretty confident. I’ve always thought that no matter what the circumstance in life, it is typically two percent what you say, and ninety-eight percent how you say it.
This decrepit, beautiful old woman just confirmed my theory.
She proceeded to pick up the pot of coffee, and pour the steaming liquid into a white, porcelain mug to my left, leaving the perfect amount of room for the cream she added without asking my preference on. She just knew.
She was right.
This was perfect.
Once she set the pot down, she picked up my mug, and slowly handed it over to me.
“Sore wa oishīdesu ka?” She said, staring directly into my western soul. “Sore wa oishīdesu ka?”
Not having remotely a clue what she was saying, I slowly took a sip. The wonderful sting of a freshly brewed cup of coffee burned my throat. It was glorious.
“Mmmmm,” I said, smiling and nodding my head much to the lovely, sweet old lady’s delight.
She giggled again, and softly clapped her hands together before she walked around the other side of the table to literally sit directly next to me on the worn down couch.
In her completely empty coffeeshop with loads of other seating options, and surely something to clean or fix, she opted to sit directly next to me, her face literally inches away from mine.
All I could think to do was take another sip, and “mmmm” again. She, again, giggled profusely.
This game of cat, and mouse watching cat sip coffee, lasted far longer than I would have expected it to last. The wonderful, old woman didn’t budge. She didn’t speak anything else, and just stared at me from that intimate distance.
I did the only thing I could ultimately think to do. I continued sipping my coffee, and eating my pastries, and spreading my jam, and getting some of my work done.
I obviously spoke English nonsense out loud so she felt included in all of my decisions. Knowing she didn’t have any idea what I was saying, I was essentially just narrating my every move.
“I was supposed to turn this proposal in before I left for this trip. That was two weeks ago, can you believe it?” Or the occasional, “All of these pastries are so stinking good, do you make these yourself? Surely you buy them wholesale.” She just watched, stared, giggled, and said nothing.
After probably ten or fifteen minutes of this Abbot and Costello bit, she spoke. A single, simple word, in crystal clear, plain as day English. This elusive, terribly brittle woman looked directly into my eyes, and said,
“Toast?”
Her eyes lit up like she had just won a gold medal at the 2020 Winter Olympics in Tokyo.
Shocked, and horribly confused I cocked my head to the left and stared right back at her.
“Um, yeah, sure, OK, that sounds great.” Does this bitch speak English?
She giggled, covered her face again, and briskly stood up with the flexibility of someone in their early sixties, before retreating back into the kitchen area of this deserted coffee shop.
I just sat there in silence, stunned and a little scared that she had potentially understood every mindless word I had just been speaking at her.
After a few more minutes, and a few more clanking dish sounds from the kitchen, the sweet, ancient, deceptive old woman scurried back into the dining area. This time, with another full tray spread of items.
More fresh fruit, more puff pastries, more fresh baked bread, more cookies, more cheeses, more fresh jams, freshly toasted slices of that homemade bread, and more of the most important aspect of this delicious spread; another full pot of coffee.
As soon as the tray hit the wooden slats of the wobbly coffee table, the sweet, old woman sat right back down next to me. We resumed our cat and mouse game, this time with the understanding that there was a strong chance we both understood what I was saying.
~~~
Aa betrayed as I had initially felt, I enjoyed our little emotional sparring. It felt oddly nice to experience such an organically awkward interaction with a complete stranger, likely twice my age, with zero in common.
I probably enjoyed the experience a little too much, because when my brain finally reminded me to check the time, and I looked down at my cheap, digital watch, I realized that it was fifteen until eleven in the morning. I was going to be late to meet the chubby, excitable tourist guide friend I had made earlier.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, realizing the time, “I’m so sorry, I have to go!” I looked at the decrepit, sweet lady, and frowned. Her smile never budged.
I quickly closed my laptop, and packed my things back into my back pack. I slung it sloppily over my shoulder, and stood to walk towards my shoes to put them back on. As I stretched the tight Nike’s around my large ankle bone, I pulled my wallet out to pay. The old, lovely woman hadn’t moved. Still starting, still smiling.
I pulled some Yen out of my wallet, and began looking around the room for a place to give this money to her, but I couldn’t find anything resembling a cash register.
I turned to the woman, and reached my hand out, motioning the money towards her. Politely, and still smiling, she shook her head “no,” and made an “X” shape with her two forearms.
No? I thought. It wasn’t strange to me the idea that a Japanese national would offer to pay for my experience. At many bars and restaurants throughout my trip, I had meals comped, drinks bought by strangers, simply because I was Amerikahitodesu. I’m sure it helped that I was six feet three inches tall, and caucasian. The two most common stranger interactions throughout the entire nation of Japan was having meals and drinks comped, and strangers whispering into my ear, “…Tom Cruise.” I refused to let this sweet, old woman not let me pay. I insisted.
I held my hands out towards her again, motioning her to take the money. Again, a small giggle, her hands in an “X,” and this time a soft and quiet, “no.”
What does she mean no? Fine then, I thought, I’ll just leave the Yen with a big ass tip at your cash register. Then she wouldn’t have a chance to refuse my generosity.
I again surveyed the room, taking inventory. Couch, chairs, tables, extra chairs, where is the cash register? I thought to myself. She still hadn’t moved. She still hadn’t stopped smiling.
Again, and admittedly starting to sweat, I surveyed.
OK, I thought, couch, chairs, tables, more chairs, paintings, cool art, family portrait, cou—wait.
Why is there a family portrait on the wall?
Why is there another one of the same family on the mantel over the fire place?
The panic set in.
There is no cash register.
Oh, my sweet God, I think I’m in this old, but ancient, lovely, but sweet, wonderful woman’s home.
I looked at the old, lovely woman. She still hadn’t stopped staring. She still hadn’t stopped smiling. The only way to describe the moment of realization was that, quite literally, my entire body began sweating. The small spots in my lower back, the crevice of my elbow, the base of my neck, and even the soft skin behind my ears.
She still hadn’t stopped staring. She still hadn’t stopped smiling.
Mortified, and face completely flushed I slowly walked towards the woman.
Her smile, strong as it had been from the start, maintained. I slowly, but confidently, set the Yen down on her coffee table as I never broke eye contact. This terrible staring warfare pulling at my very soul, I shuttered at the thought of what I had done.
I had broken into this woman’s house, demanding she make me coffee, and then she did.
This poor, ancient, sweet, old and lovely lady.
I gently lifted her hand to place it on the Yen, and then placed mine on top of her. Looking deep into her soft eyes, I quietly muttered the only words I could think to say.
“I am so, so sorry.”
She still hadn’t stopped staring. She still hadn’t stopped smiling.
And then I left.
~~~
I think of this woman often, even still, five plus years later. I wonder what she is doing. I wonder what she is up to. The thing I wonder about the most, however, all these years later? I wonder how she tells this same story. I wonder if she called her friends, and exclaimed, “Karen, you’ll never believe what just happened!”
One thing I know for sure, though, is that if I ever make it back out to to the city of Nikkō Japan, within the Tochigi Prefecture, you can be goddamn sure that I will be walking straight to that ancient, sweet, gently, caring, lovely, old woman’s house, I will be walking straight inside to sit on her couch, and when she finally makes her way to poke her head out of the kitchen door and looks to the living room to see me sitting there, I will say in a newly learned phrase, “Kōhī, onegaishimasu.”
THE END.
In 2013, I had the incredible opportunity to travel to Japan. It was amazing for a multitude of reasons, but mostly because it truly put Asia on my map as a destination. Before I boarded my flight for my first trip to our most eastern ally, Asia was never on my list of hot spots, or must see’s before I die.
Now? Well, now, I’d go back today.
The food, the people & culture, the geography... they were all quite awe-inspiring, and proved to me that such a beautiful country, with such a rich cultural history, is one that should be appreciated, and yes, visited.
On my sophomore trip to Japan, I decided to take a day trip to the city of Nikkō within the Tochigi Prefecture.
For those of you who don't know, which is probably the majority of people even reading this, Nikkō is a gorgeous, tiny, mountain town north of bustling Tokyo. Tiny in population, with only around 90,000 people spread throughout its entire area. While it is massive is geographical size, being Japan's third largest 'city,' the majority of its mass is covered in dense national forests. There were two main reasons I decided Nikkō would be a worthwhile day trip to get out of the beautifully chaotic city limits of Tokyo. The first being that Nikkō is known for its beautifully lush forests. Its most popular shrines literally appear out of nowhere as you are hiking through miles upon miles of thick, cedar trees.
The second, and more well-known, reason for visiting Nikkō? The original 'See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil,’ three wise monkey carvings. They are found perfectly intact at the Tosho-gu shrine originally built in 1617.
Something even I knew about.
3 some-odd hours, and ¥4060 later, I stepped off the train in Nikkō, Japan.
As soon as my feet touched the Daiyamukō train station platform, and I took my first deep breath of fresh, Japanese, mountain air, I heard it. A small burst of noise in the distance...
“Amerikahitodesu!"
What the fuck... Then I heard it again.
"Amerikahitodesu!"
Then, as I realized where the strange sequence of sound was coming from, I saw him. The shortest, chubbiest Japanese man in all of the ancient, Japanese land was approaching me. In a full sprint.
The excitement that filled his eyes was something I hadn't seen since watching my Dad witness the ill-fated Houston Astros make the World Series in 2005, before the subsequent heartbreak of being swept by the Chicago White Sox. His smile ear to ear, his arms waving in the air, and his eyes... his eyes dead locked on mine. When he finally arrived to the Amerikahitodesu he had so intensely sought, his exhaustion never allowed him to miss a beat. He didn't let the massive gasps of air he desperately needed from his frantic sprint slow him down for one single second.
"Are [breeeeath] you [breeeeath] Amerikahitodesu?! Are you [breeeeath] from America?" He proclaimed. I don't know if he actually was or not, but I always remember him gripping both of my shoulders as he asked my face. Which also happens to be the best way I can describe what this man was doing.
"I am," I answered, "are you ok?"
"Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" He turned away from me, threw his hands to the sky, and let out one last exasperation, "AMERIKAHITODESU!”
I am partly ashamed to admit it, but a slight smile creeped across my face. Simply admitting to this clever, little Japanese man that I, by virtue of doing absolutely nothing, have apparently made this man’s day filled me with a funny joy, and slight sense of pride. Yes, I am an American.
“What state are you from?” He asked in near perfect English. I wasn’t initially aware, but apparently English is taught in grade school throughout Japan, and as I learned during my time there, everyone is very excited to speak it to an Amerikahitodesu.
“I’m from California.” I replied.
“What city?”
That’s awfully specific for a stranger, I thought.
“Los Angeles?” I curiously replied. The man exhaled, with a sense of content and relief that I couldn’t quite understand.
“I visit San Francisco for my birthday last year. I had amazing time. Everyone so nice. All food so good. Everyone so nice. I had amazing time.” I didn’t really have any words, other than the repeating thought of thank God everyone was so nice to you, because in my general experience a lot of Amerikahitodesu are total assholes. “Nikkō is my hometown.” The man told me. “It would be honor to show you my hometown. I had amazing time in America, I would want to repay that to you here, now.”
How fucking lovely. This man came to America for his birthday, had a wonderful experience and would now like to pay it forward to this stranger Amerikahitodesu. Beautiful. I told him that I would be honored for him to show me around his hometown, and agreed to his only condition that I tell the people of America how beautiful Nikkō is. He apparently thought I alone could help boost Nikkō tourism.
He informed me that in addition to myself, there would be a small Australian family joining our tour, and that I should meet him back right at this very spot in one hour’s time. Eleven-hundred hours, or eleven in the morning in Amerikahitodesu terms.
For me, this was perfect, because to be frank I hadn’t had any coffee yet that morning and had just stepped off a three or four hour train ride from Urayasu in the Chiba Perfecture. An hour of waiting meant I could find myself that elusive cup of coffee, and still have about forty-five minutes to do absolutely nothing. That’s exactly what I sought out to do.
Nikkō is a unique town in that there isn’t a lot there. Not unlike Old Towne Orange, in Orange County, California, or Big Bear a little further east. The idea of both of those places is that you can find some shops, and antique stores, but there isn’t much else. Enter Nikkō.
As I walked down what I hesitate referring to as “Main Street,” I noticed the small town’s pattern. Antique store, convenient store, lamp shop; repeat. Each building completely unique in its design, and likely varying widely in age. The town completely silent and still, regardless of the fact that it was only around ten o’clock in the morning on a weekday. It could be six in the evening on a Saturday, and there may be one more person walking the streets, giving the area a total of one person walking on the streets. Despite it’s complete lack of energy, there was something so beautiful about it, walking quietly through an empty street of a town that outdates my country of origin.
It was around the time that feeling of complete inner peace and rest was beginning to pass that I saw it; my beacon and the reason for my being. Sitting just a little further down the street I found a lone coffee shop. I knew it had to be a coffee shop because there was a small, pink and green flag hanging outside of the main entrance door, slightly blowing in the cool breeze of the Japanese, mountain air. Excited, and ready to awaken with a sip of warm, bean water, I hustled my way down the small street.
When I arrived, I slid the small door open, and stepped inside. As cultural custom expected, I removed my shoes, and left them by the door before stepping into the establishment. At a quick glance, I could tell this place was cozy, no doubt taking after it’s more hipster, American brothers and sisters.
A small couch lined the wall filled with photos and cool pieces of Japanese art. Two smaller tables with adjoining chairs rested near the opposite side of the room. A small fireplace filled the space with a gorgeous, warm layer of comfort. I opted to take up a small amount of space on the couch, as I noticed I was the only patron currently inside. It was a very small town, after all, and it was a weekday. I wouldn’t expect the joint to be bustling with customers. There only strange bit that I couldn’t quite shake was the lack of presence in workers to greet me as I entered.
From what I had gathered, Japan is a very courteous country. Just simply walking past a business during operating hours warranted a wonderful greeting from at least one to two employees standing near the entrance.
“Kon’nichiwa,” was the usual suspect. Sometimes you would receive the more confusing, “Onegaishimasu,” which I am fairly certain translates to “please.” There was no one near the entrance of this particular coffee shop, nor any worker just inside the door to help take my winter coat.
Nevertheless, I took a few steps over to the worn in couch, removed my backpack and coat, and took a sunken seat into the cushion. After a few moments of still not being greeted, or even acknowledged, I pulled out my laptop and decided to try and sneak in a little downtime work.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint rustling in what I assumed to be the kitchen area of this shop. Plates clinking against each other, no doubt porcelain, or some other precious material. Forks, sliding off a dish and clanking against the metal of the sink. Water rushing from the faucet, cleaning crumbs of pastries and foam stained mugs.
“Kon’nichiwa..?” I confidently spoke then only real phrase of Japanese I knew.
The faucet water abruptly cut off.
Confused, I leaned over the table, and looks directly to the doorway, expecting at any moment my Superman ability to see through walls would finally make it’s appearance in my adult life.
Nothing.
Silence from the kitchen.
I cleared my throat, gently, and spoke up again .
"Kon’nichiwa..?”
The creak of the wooden floor made someone’s presence known, if the faucet and dishes hadn’t already. Another creak told me that they were taking a step closer to the door. Closer to see me waiting for their assistance.
Finally, the white, wooden door slowly moved towards me, one small inch at a time. After what felt like an eternity waiting for this door to swing open, she finally revealed herself.
The sweetest looking, oldest, most adorable, little Japanese woman I had ever seen.
She was either forty-six years old, or one hundred and seventy-five, I couldn’t tell. She had a beautiful, albeit confused smirk on her face, perfectly long, white hair, and a tiny cooking apron. She still wore her dishwashing gloves, one being green, and the other yellow.
After a few moments of strange, but again, undeniably adorable eye contact, I spoke one final time.
“Kon’nichiwa. Eh… coffee?” For as much as I consumed it, even on this trip, I never actually took the time to learn the Japanese word for coffee.
The sweet old lady didn’t budge. She didn’t break eye contact. She didn’t move.
I wasn’t sure what to do, or say for that matter. All my brain could decide to do was to pantomime myself drinking a cup of joe. With the swallow, belly rub, and “mmmm” to match.
It must have communicated my desire accurately, because after a few more moments of intense eye contact, she slowly disappeared back into the kitchen area.
Well, that was strange. I dove straight back into my work without missing a beat.
It only took a few moments for my awkward concerns to be squashed. The sweet, small, wonderful Japanese woman slowly crept back into the main dining area with the most glorious, and unnecessarily impressive tray of items I had ever seen.
Fresh fruit, puff pastries, fresh baked bread, cookies, cheeses, fresh jams, and the most important aspect of this delicious spread; a full pot of coffee.
A wonderful, lovely woman she was, indeed.
She effortlessly set the heavy tray of items down on the small table just in front of the couch I sat on and I couldn’t remember the word for “thank you.”
“Oh, wow, thanks!” I proclaimed instead.
The sweet, ancient woman audibly giggled, and held her hands to cover her smile. I reached my hand towards the coffee pot handle, when I felt a sudden sting on the top of my forearm.
The old, lovely woman had slapped the shit out of my arm.
“Teineide wa arimasen,” the wonderful, physics defying woman said with an intriguing sing-song cadence. “Īdesu ka?”
“Oh, thanks,” I awkwardly smiled and laughed. I have no idea what she is saying, but she seems pretty confident. I’ve always thought that no matter what the circumstance in life, it is typically two percent what you say, and ninety-eight percent how you say it.
This decrepit, beautiful old woman just confirmed my theory.
She proceeded to pick up the pot of coffee, and pour the steaming liquid into a white, porcelain mug to my left, leaving the perfect amount of room for the cream she added without asking my preference on. She just knew.
She was right.
This was perfect.
Once she set the pot down, she picked up my mug, and slowly handed it over to me.
“Sore wa oishīdesu ka?” She said, staring directly into my western soul. “Sore wa oishīdesu ka?”
Not having remotely a clue what she was saying, I slowly took a sip. The wonderful sting of a freshly brewed cup of coffee burned my throat. It was glorious.
“Mmmmm,” I said, smiling and nodding my head much to the lovely, sweet old lady’s delight.
She giggled again, and softly clapped her hands together before she walked around the other side of the table to literally sit directly next to me on the worn down couch.
In her completely empty coffeeshop with loads of other seating options, and surely something to clean or fix, she opted to sit directly next to me, her face literally inches away from mine.
All I could think to do was take another sip, and “mmmm” again. She, again, giggled profusely.
This game of cat, and mouse watching cat sip coffee, lasted far longer than I would have expected it to last. The wonderful, old woman didn’t budge. She didn’t speak anything else, and just stared at me from that intimate distance.
I did the only thing I could ultimately think to do. I continued sipping my coffee, and eating my pastries, and spreading my jam, and getting some of my work done.
I obviously spoke English nonsense out loud so she felt included in all of my decisions. Knowing she didn’t have any idea what I was saying, I was essentially just narrating my every move.
“I was supposed to turn this proposal in before I left for this trip. That was two weeks ago, can you believe it?” Or the occasional, “All of these pastries are so stinking good, do you make these yourself? Surely you buy them wholesale.” She just watched, stared, giggled, and said nothing.
After probably ten or fifteen minutes of this Abbot and Costello bit, she spoke. A single, simple word, in crystal clear, plain as day English. This elusive, terribly brittle woman looked directly into my eyes, and said,
“Toast?”
Her eyes lit up like she had just won a gold medal at the 2020 Winter Olympics in Tokyo.
Shocked, and horribly confused I cocked my head to the left and stared right back at her.
“Um, yeah, sure, OK, that sounds great.” Does this bitch speak English?
She giggled, covered her face again, and briskly stood up with the flexibility of someone in their early sixties, before retreating back into the kitchen area of this deserted coffee shop.
I just sat there in silence, stunned and a little scared that she had potentially understood every mindless word I had just been speaking at her.
After a few more minutes, and a few more clanking dish sounds from the kitchen, the sweet, ancient, deceptive old woman scurried back into the dining area. This time, with another full tray spread of items.
More fresh fruit, more puff pastries, more fresh baked bread, more cookies, more cheeses, more fresh jams, freshly toasted slices of that homemade bread, and more of the most important aspect of this delicious spread; another full pot of coffee.
As soon as the tray hit the wooden slats of the wobbly coffee table, the sweet, old woman sat right back down next to me. We resumed our cat and mouse game, this time with the understanding that there was a strong chance we both understood what I was saying.
~~~
Aa betrayed as I had initially felt, I enjoyed our little emotional sparring. It felt oddly nice to experience such an organically awkward interaction with a complete stranger, likely twice my age, with zero in common.
I probably enjoyed the experience a little too much, because when my brain finally reminded me to check the time, and I looked down at my cheap, digital watch, I realized that it was fifteen until eleven in the morning. I was going to be late to meet the chubby, excitable tourist guide friend I had made earlier.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, realizing the time, “I’m so sorry, I have to go!” I looked at the decrepit, sweet lady, and frowned. Her smile never budged.
I quickly closed my laptop, and packed my things back into my back pack. I slung it sloppily over my shoulder, and stood to walk towards my shoes to put them back on. As I stretched the tight Nike’s around my large ankle bone, I pulled my wallet out to pay. The old, lovely woman hadn’t moved. Still starting, still smiling.
I pulled some Yen out of my wallet, and began looking around the room for a place to give this money to her, but I couldn’t find anything resembling a cash register.
I turned to the woman, and reached my hand out, motioning the money towards her. Politely, and still smiling, she shook her head “no,” and made an “X” shape with her two forearms.
No? I thought. It wasn’t strange to me the idea that a Japanese national would offer to pay for my experience. At many bars and restaurants throughout my trip, I had meals comped, drinks bought by strangers, simply because I was Amerikahitodesu. I’m sure it helped that I was six feet three inches tall, and caucasian. The two most common stranger interactions throughout the entire nation of Japan was having meals and drinks comped, and strangers whispering into my ear, “…Tom Cruise.” I refused to let this sweet, old woman not let me pay. I insisted.
I held my hands out towards her again, motioning her to take the money. Again, a small giggle, her hands in an “X,” and this time a soft and quiet, “no.”
What does she mean no? Fine then, I thought, I’ll just leave the Yen with a big ass tip at your cash register. Then she wouldn’t have a chance to refuse my generosity.
I again surveyed the room, taking inventory. Couch, chairs, tables, extra chairs, where is the cash register? I thought to myself. She still hadn’t moved. She still hadn’t stopped smiling.
Again, and admittedly starting to sweat, I surveyed.
OK, I thought, couch, chairs, tables, more chairs, paintings, cool art, family portrait, cou—wait.
Why is there a family portrait on the wall?
Why is there another one of the same family on the mantel over the fire place?
The panic set in.
There is no cash register.
Oh, my sweet God, I think I’m in this old, but ancient, lovely, but sweet, wonderful woman’s home.
I looked at the old, lovely woman. She still hadn’t stopped staring. She still hadn’t stopped smiling. The only way to describe the moment of realization was that, quite literally, my entire body began sweating. The small spots in my lower back, the crevice of my elbow, the base of my neck, and even the soft skin behind my ears.
She still hadn’t stopped staring. She still hadn’t stopped smiling.
Mortified, and face completely flushed I slowly walked towards the woman.
Her smile, strong as it had been from the start, maintained. I slowly, but confidently, set the Yen down on her coffee table as I never broke eye contact. This terrible staring warfare pulling at my very soul, I shuttered at the thought of what I had done.
I had broken into this woman’s house, demanding she make me coffee, and then she did.
This poor, ancient, sweet, old and lovely lady.
I gently lifted her hand to place it on the Yen, and then placed mine on top of her. Looking deep into her soft eyes, I quietly muttered the only words I could think to say.
“I am so, so sorry.”
She still hadn’t stopped staring. She still hadn’t stopped smiling.
And then I left.
~~~
I think of this woman often, even still, five plus years later. I wonder what she is doing. I wonder what she is up to. The thing I wonder about the most, however, all these years later? I wonder how she tells this same story. I wonder if she called her friends, and exclaimed, “Karen, you’ll never believe what just happened!”
One thing I know for sure, though, is that if I ever make it back out to to the city of Nikkō Japan, within the Tochigi Prefecture, you can be goddamn sure that I will be walking straight to that ancient, sweet, gently, caring, lovely, old woman’s house, I will be walking straight inside to sit on her couch, and when she finally makes her way to poke her head out of the kitchen door and looks to the living room to see me sitting there, I will say in a newly learned phrase, “Kōhī, onegaishimasu.”
THE END.