Considering I was on vacation, it was my birthday, and I was preparing to fulfill a childhood dream, I’m not surprised I cried. The expectations were higher than the time I accidentally quadrupled the dosage in some Jack Herer brownies. So high they could never have been met. And if you’re a human being, you know situations involving shattered expectations are among the world’s greatest tragedies. Like when you finally arrive in Hollywood to find strange people in ragtag minion costumes standing next to piles of human feces. Or perhaps — yes, this is the story you’re about to read — realizing you have gotten on the wrong train and may not make it in time to meet the Japanese corgi you’ve been following on YouTube for nearly a decade, whose owner graciously set up a coffee date that happened to be on your 24th birthday, and my god it’s going to be the best birthday of all time!
I will preface this by saying that I always cry on my birthday. Last year was Blubberfest 2k15, and I thought I might have satisfied two years worth of cry. But if you read the fine print, the universe’s human sadness contract doesn’t do rollovers. I should know this after my 18th birthday, when I drunkenly cried the entire night after someone asked me why my eyebrows and hair aren’t the same color. I was not spared the next year.
Back to meeting that corgi. Earlier in July, I traveled to Tokyo to visit my brother, Max. Before I arrived, I jokingly messaged him “I should meet Goro [the corgi in question]. I think he lives in Tokyo.”
Max messaged back, “Do it.”
I found the owner’s email on YouTube, sent a plea, and we set up a date. This is that day.
We’re on a train out of the city, and Max walks over to me and informs me we’re on the wrong train. I’m devastated but not surprised. It’s in our nature to navigate incorrectly — I’d say roughly 40% of the time. Multiply us together and we are exponentially lost. I know this about us and had budgeted an extra 45 minutes to get to Goro-Town, but our misstep is too significant. We are going to be 12 minutes late.
“MAX,” I’m ashamed to admit that I can become a finger-pointer in a crisis. “You said this was the right train.”
“I thought it was. You email the guy, and we’ll take this train back and switch after two stops,” Max says calmly. Guiltily. I’d made him feel bad.
I glare, completely aware I’m being a princess. “Fine.”
I email an update to Goro’s owner, Shiro, and double check the train route. I look at the departure time.
“Um. Why haven’t we left? The train was supposed to depart a minute ago. And Japanese trains are never late.”
“Ohhh.”
Shit. I know that “Oh.” On top of that lost siblings thing we have going, Max has his own thing. He might be a genius. He’s accomplished a lot for a 25-year-old. He also, almost without fail, manages a last minute fuck up. He starts off his accomplishments with complete confidence. This is always followed by the realization that he hasn’t made all the right considerations, and disaster is imminent. The disaster hits, he makes a swift maneuver, and — perhaps with a few sacrifices — achieves success. Every damn time.
“Is this the Narita Express?” I ask, feeling a stupid satisfaction in knowing it’s not. I’ve put him in a bind.
“Ok, I didn’t realize we needed to switch trains. We have another hour to go.”
“But,” I plead, “I already emailed him! He made a reservation! What if — “ My eyeballs are moist, my nostrils are steaming like a tea kettle. But the tear threshold has not been broken.
“Goro will understand,” Max assures me.
I accept our fate and write a second email to Shiro, this time ending with “We are on the way!!” as if to subtly say, “You’d better not fucking leave that cafe.”
We wait for our next train in silence. Max tries to buy me ice cream from a vending machine. I walk over and he tells me the best choices are sold out. I slam the choco-strawberry ice cream waffle button and grab it from below. I eat it when we get on the next train, and it’s pretty damn oishi. That helps enough that I can admit to myself I’m in the midst of a birthday tantrum. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m crabby. Thanks for the ice cream.”
“Goro will understand.”
I spend the rest of the train ride googling how to say “Sorry I’m late” in Japanese. I save it as a note on my phone: “Osokunatte sumimasen.”
When the train arrives, I don’t waste a moment. I begin to sprint. I turn around and notice Max is trailing a plastic bag full of 711 trash. “Trash?” I say, pointing at the bag, then at a rare public trash bin.
“Wrong kind. that’s for bottles,” says Max. The Japanese are very good with trash sorting.
“Max. Trash,” I insist, still sprinting full speed.
“I’ll do it later,” he says. “I don’t want to make us late.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “I would rather be even later than have you walk in with that trash.” My birthday has turned me into a monster.
He obliges and approaches a bin near two security guards, but backtracks. He walks back toward me with trash in tow and shrugged shoulders.
“What the fuck?!”
“They were glaring at me!”
I roll my eyes. Fair enough. I start running again. I don’t see it happen behind me, but Max makes a maneuver and the trash disappears. I keep running until I’m there.
“This is it!” I recognize the coffee shop door from Google street view.
It’s a whirlwind. I pull up the Japanese apology on my phone and practice it one more time. Then I push open the door.
“Osku natmaseeeennnnn…” I mumble as I walk in.
I don’t have time to be embarrassed by my pronunciation before I see them: Two little loafs sit at Shiro’s feet. My life is an A-Ha music video; I’ve reached through YouTube to the other side of the earth and jumped into a corgi paradise! Goro is smaller than I imagined, and although I did not think it possible, even cuter in person. His Gorotastic smile is infectious. Those tears are bubbling up again, but there are too many distractions to feel the full joy of the moment.
Goro’s little corgi brother, Roku, immediately takes over my lap and licks off the makeup I wore for the camera. I am still holding the Lindt chocolates I brought as a gift for Shiro, and am desperately trying to save the bag from crumpling. A Japanese insider told me that gifts come with two bags so you can keep the gifting bag pristine. Being late was strike one, I was not risking strike two with a wrinkly bag.
“Gorochan, Rokuchan,” Shiro says affectionately, calming them. I stand up, and coffees are waiting for us on the table. In the background I hear my brother saying “No no, least popular.” I don’t need to turn around to know he’s showing the shop owner some translated text on his phone with the word “least” highlighted. For at least a year now, he has been requesting the least popular item on the menu everywhere he goes. It actually ends up being good a lot of the time. A minute later we are brought cinnamon cakes and ice cream.
Over the cakes and coffee, we talk to Shiro using broken English and LINE, a messaging app popular in Japan. He is a quiet man. After years of watching his videos, this was the first time I had heard his voice or seen his face. I always respected that he let his dogs be the stars.
“Goro — ” Shiro points, “Genius. Roku — ahhh. Normal.” We all laugh.
“Damn right,” I think. “There is no dog better than Sir Goro” (the dog is not actually knighted). That’s a strong statement considering I grew up with two beloved corgis of my own. I bring up a childhood photo of me and Max sitting with them. Their names are Jack and Muffin. Shiro’s eyes light up, and he gasps, “Corgi!”
I knew at this moment that Shiro was my people. This person, a grown-ass man, also feels giddy elation every single time he sees a corgi. He beamed and asked us to “Please send the Jack and Muffin photo.” Yes, eyeballs are still pretty moist at this point. But the distractions keep coming.
One of the shop owners comes out from the back. She’s carrying a surprise. IT’S A THIRD CORGI. “Holyshitholyshitholyshit,” my wide eyes say for me. I walk up and pet corgi #3 when the other shop owner walks out carrying a double-surprise FOURTH CORGI.
My mouth doesn’t know what to do here. The corners of my lips point up to smile, then out in shock, then down to say “Arigatou gozaimasu” repeatedly. As she thanks me back (It’s difficult to convey the amount of thanking that goes on in Japan), she hands over the corgi. His name is Champ. My brain switches most of its resources over to keeping my shit together and sacrifices memory-making. It’s one big blur of activities after this.
Shiro writes out commands in English for me so I can have Goro and Roku perform tricks. One of the shop owners gives me beautiful handmade origami paper. And yes, I know it’s Japan, but how does she know I’ve loved origami my whole life? Does this woman exist to make my dreams come truer? We take group photos, including one where the denser corgi, Roku, is facing the camera butt-first. Max and I head out.
Shiro gives me a gift as we leave, as if the visit wasn’t enough of a gift. The same Japanese insider from before let me know that you should wait to open a gift until you’ve left, so I do. I wait until we’re on the train back to Tokyo to open the rectangular cardboard box. Inside is a book wrapped in bubble wrap. It’s a photo book with pictures Shiro has taken of Goro, Roku, and his kitten. Goro in the leaves. Goro in the flowers. Roku in a trash can. I smile bigger with each page until the end. The last words printed into the book are: “For Amy Hawkins.”
“What? What? Specifically for me? But…”
My bottom lip pouts and my eyebrows go wonky. Oh shit. It’s happening. I stare at Goro’s unbelievably adorable little grin and start to cry. I look up and 3 men are watching the breakdown. With tears streaming down my face, I look up at Max and ask, “How do you say exceeded expectations in Japanese?”