When I travel, I tend to highlight the opportunities to learn: Whether it’s about other cultures, how life differs in different parts of the world, culinary experiences, different perspectives and insight, or whatever, taking something with new appreciation is what I seek most. My innate introverted nature sometimes keeps me from going out to experience more, so it’s sometimes a struggle to push myself to dive into things that my primitive brain might otherwise shriek, “I DUNNO, BRO, MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T DO THAT!”
Traveling is great regardless. I get to soak up the local flavors and develop a newfound appreciation for what I have in America and the circumstances in which I find myself.
This tangent is somewhat relevant to this post, which is about an experience that profoundly stood out to me in all of my time in Hokkaido — nay, Japan. It wasn’t a taste buds-blasting experience, awe-inspiring architecture, or any sort of thing that I can throw money at. It was something more intangible; it can’t be seen by the eye, nor heard, nor tactilely touched.
It was a simple interaction with another human being.
The Most Exciting Thing to Me Was Really Unexciting
I had been waiting on the platform for my train to Otaru. I was 20 minutes early before the train was set to arrive and depart. I stood around as I usually did, kind of just musing and thinking about what to eat in Otaru. I’d noticed that no one stood behind me in line, while the line next to me kept growing in number.
Oh well.
Shortly after, a sweet-looking oba-chan (grandma) came up to me and said asked me about the sign I was standing under. Clearly, she was also curious about why I was lining up by myself, whereas everyone else stood in the other line. For special Japan trains, you typically buy a ticket to reserve your seat in specially numbered cars. Unbeknownst to the oba-chan (and to me) at the time, the sign I’d been standing under would cost extra.
Let me briefly note here that my command of Japanese is about as proficient as a talking parakeet. That is to say, I can repeat words if I hear it enough, but I suppose it’s barely enough to get by. Somehow, though, I managed to understand this oba-chan and sheepishly explain to her that I was an American, that my Japanese wasn’t very good but can understand a little, and that I wasn’t really sure about the line (wakanai ne…).
For some reason, she seemed intrigued. Whether that intrigue was owed in part to my amazing charm, or in the fact that she could skip the long line, I’ll never know for sure. But she continued to talk to me seemingly with the understanding that our communication would be limited.
Miraculously, I understood her enough and responded in kind to the best of my ability, with nods and grunts (in the way that Japanese people do to acknowledge, “unh unh…sou”). In my head, it probably seemed to onlookers that I’d just visited planet earth and this grandma was simply trying to make sure I didn’t come to blow shit up.
We “spoke” on the platform for a solid 15 minutes. Moments of lively conversation intertwined with a mildly suffocating silence, the two of us (presumably) grasping at the words to convey our thoughts.
You’d think being fettered by a communication barrier would’ve been incredibly frustrating, but no, it actually enhanced the entire experience. I’d always been interested in the Japanese language; it is in fact a goal of mine to develop more fluency, so this was an opportunity to help me put aside my fears about messing up and just go with the flow. My other thought was that human language — no matter what language — was goddamn amazing and a marvel of human innovation.
A Hilarious Misunderstanding
I learned that she lived in Otaru and was visiting a friend in Sapporo. She also appreciated the fact that I could communicate with her, despite…not actually using that many words (or in some cases, the wrong words).
Case in point, she’d eventually asked where I would be staying in Otaru. I told her that I’d booked a ryokan, a Japanese style inn. When she asked the name, I couldn’t quite recall it…I’d only looked at it in passing in an email confirmation. So, I proceeded to blurt out, “Oboitenai desu kedo, ecchi — ya tabun na…” (“I can’t remember really…maybe it’s ecchi-ya…?”)
And for as long as I live, I’ll never forget the look of surprise mixed with horror that took over her expression. She adamantly insisted that she had no idea where that was!
I realized moments later that I might’ve told her that I’d reserved a room at a perverted inn… (It was actually called Etchuya.) Based on my prolific understanding of Japanese from anime, ecchi is kind of slang for “dirty” or “perverted sexual things.” You can see why this innocent-looking grandma recoiled in fear.
After clearing up the hilarious misunderstanding though, she put in way too much effort to give me directions to the place. I tried to tell her that I had Google maps and it was cool — but that message got lost in translation, as she enlisted the help of another lady who spoke more English and was from Tokyo. I explained to the lady from Tokyo that I was really okay and I just didn’t know how to say it to the grandma, after which she laughed and said that the grandma was such a nice person.
So. true.
We left the station together. The grandma adamantly insisted on walking with me the entire 15 minutes to the entrance of the ryokan — through dark alleys and patches of snow (at one point, she even commented that the street looked scary!), while holding heavy bags that she wouldn’t let me help her with.
This oba-chan was so kind…I told her so. I pieced together the following in Japanese, “Anata wa honto yasashi desu.”
You are a nice person.
With a knowing smile, she said that her kindness was not so unusual because she believes everyone is able to be a nice person; and that she wanted to be especially nice to a fellow Asian (she pointed to her eyes and mine, so I could only assume that was what she meant). I felt such an affinity towards her — probably because she reminded me of my own late grandma, whom I loved very much.
We walked most of the way to the ryokan in silence. Occasionally, she’d point out notable Otaru landmarks here and there. I didn’t know what to say. What else could I have said?
It was only after she’d made sure I was safely delivered me to my “perverted inn” that she finally turned around to walk home. I tried to tell her that I would like to walk her home but couldn’t find the words to say. Have you ever been so frustrated by a complete loss of words, despite every cell in your body wanting you to speak? It was like trying to describe the color red to a blind person.
I wish I’d known the words to say to show how much I appreciated such a gesture.
As she walked away, I could only yell out “Honto arigato gozaimasu!” and bowed deeply to show my gratitude and respect (as is customary of Japanese culture). But to this day, I’d wondered if she knew the extent of the connection she’d made with me, a complete stranger who might have told her about a perverted inn. Looking back, I now regret not taking swift, decisive action with just leaving my stuff at the inn and walking with her anyway. And I realized later that she had trusted me implicitly.
I’ll never see her again, but I think that’s what made this encounter so special. The circumstances surrounding our “magical” connection — our special bond of Asianness (according to her), my being in a foreign country, and the language barrier — made it so. If I had met her back home, I imagine I probably would’ve thought much less of the encounter.
For that, I am thankful I can view this snapshot in my experience through a different and slightly rose-colored perspective.
A Girl Alone in Her Room
The elderly gentleman at the check-in counter had no idea what had just happened, though he was surprised to discover that I’d be checking in by myself. Normally, ryokans are a popular option for vacationing couples, and I guess in the online reservation I might’ve overlooked the part where I’d be by myself.
Nevertheless, the man spoke some English and was kind enough himself. I told him I’d like to be served breakfast around 8:30am, and he hollered to a woman in the back, saying to prepare breakfast for one. She asked why, and he responded with a shrug, “She’s by herself.”
Ouch. Hearing those words said aloud kind of stung, but what’s a wandering blogger to do?
I was shown to my room, and after a quick bow, soon left to a quiet solitude in my own dimly lit Japanese-style room. They had lain out two futons (traditional bedding) side-by-side on the floor — they looked so fluffy and inviting; and I loved the straw-like smell of the tatami mats. Some people might confuse this smell with muskiness, but that’s just the way tatami mats are, I think.
Next to the futons were folded yukatas (traditional robes) for me to wear and towels for the ofuro (bath). There was also a table of barely knee-height, where my breakfast would be served. (I don’t think I wore the yukata right, but whatevs…)
I hadn’t eaten yet, so I ventured out to in search of grub. Unfortunately, most of the restaurants were closed, and I was too tired to really explore and try to find something adventurous. So, I went to a market nearby and picked up a mish-mash of things to bring back to the room, where I proceeded to eat in silence. And as if the universe wanted to brush this over with greater melodrama, it’d begun to rain more steadily outside.
I must’ve been on some kind of emotional high from my experience with the grandma because as I sat in that quiet room, I’d suddenly felt terrifyingly lonely. Not to mention the ryokan owners’ remarks. I remember texting a friend, whom I knew would be asleep at the time, “It’d be nice if I had someone to share this with. Forever alone. Womp.”
Okay, to be fair, it’s not like I was alone in this room, in a foreign country, in a totally new place, simply feeling sorry for myself (I finally turned on some anime to break the silence, actually). It was the opposite. I felt kind of a sad awareness that I’d gone from one kind of solitude (one that I couldn’t bear any longer in Boise) to another kind but with supposedly more freedom. It made me realize that while I could make many new experiences and friends, I couldn’t commit to any one place, one person, or one thing of belonging.
To be honest, it was kind of terrifying.
But I knew it was something that I chose for myself. With that half-completed thought, I turned to anime. (How anti-climactic, right?) It had been a while since I had a nice, comfortable room to myself and so I wanted to make the most of it. By watching anime.
Later, I curled up in the futon to sleep, excited to try the breakfast that would be served to me in a mere six hours.
The below chronicle of my Hokkaido, Japan trip first appeared on my blog at http://fitngeeky.tv/travels. Read part 1 of my Hokkaido trip by clicking here.
Stephanie Lee is a wandering health and fitness writer with a Sriracha problem. Visit her blog at http://fitngeeky.tv/blog for her lighter takes on healthy living and fitness…while living out of a suitcase. You can find her writing on Lifehacker, Greatist.com, Bodybuilding.com, and more.
Follow her on Twitter and Facebook.