Would You Go? (rewrite 1)

     What would you do if at the age of 24 you are given the chance to go half-way around the world, to a mysterious country, and make more money than you ever have in your whole young life? Enough money in one year to pay off all your student loans in one fell swoop. You might just do it. What would you do if the job is offered to you, but you are in love with a man, things are serious, and you know the job gig in Japan will not allow “shacking up,” meaning you can't just go together as partners. You can't do so because the job includes living in a house which is provided by the Japanese town that wants to hire you to teach conversational English and help plan an international winter arts festival. Shacking up is out of the question. You might just marry that man you are in love with and go to Japan for your honeymoon—for a year.

      We stored all our possessions with friend and relatives. We sold my plucky little red pick-up truck to a couple of nuns journeying to Mexico for a mission trip, and Michael's cherished VW Golf was sold off the curb by his dad after we left. But somehow we convinced Michael's sister to babysit my motorcycle. We packed all the new wedding gifts in boxes and were staying with Michael's parents in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It was late Spring and already getting hot. We were waiting for the call from Matsuoka-san, the “Social Manager” of rural Higashikawa, Japan, that they were ready for us. The current English teacher was still living in the house that we were to move into; she should be going back to England any week now, he said.

      So we waited, and tried to study some Japanese. We memorized what we thought would be vital Japanese phrases, “Kyo no tenki wa do desu ka?”: What is the weather today? That didn't turn out to be the most helpful phrase in daily Japanese life, but we liked how it rolled off the tongue. “Hajimimashite. Oname wa Jennifer. Ogenki desu ka?” was much more useful: It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Jennifer. How are you? But the phrase we ended up using the most? “Gomen nasai. Wakaranai”: I'm sorry. I don't understand.

      We had packed our precious music collection, a boom box, books, and photos of friends and family into sturdy boxes and shipped them to Higashikawa by “slow boat mail” weeks previous. Hopefully, we would arrive about the same time as our stuff. So, we waited in humid central Pennsylvania and paced the rooms of Michael's parents' house, filled with Lancaster County antiques, 1970's overstuffed flowery furniture, and photos of family on the old piano in the den. We ate homemade macaroni and cheese with stewed tomatoes and corn bread at dinner. We went to the City Line Diner for breakfasts of scrapple, blueberry pancakes and bottomless cups of coffee. In the evenings, we watched old Jimmy Stewart movies and played Hearts around the dining room table. We laughed together with Michael's parents about the mishaps at our wedding two months previous, like when Michael forgot to bring dress socks to the church. He and the best man had to run to K-Mart an hour before the wedding and they bought a cheap acrylic pair that rubbed on the groom's feet in his rented wedding shoes. Then one evening the call came. Could we leave tomorrow?

      The next 48 hours would be a dramedy of trains, planes and buses, all the way to northern Japan. We packed our backpacks and carry-ons, kissed family and friends good-bye and innocently set out for what would be a roller coaster year: stressful and hilarious, baffling and fascinating, rewarding and draining.

      We took off from the Lancaster train station, with its grand arched windows letting in the strong early morning sun while giant fans attempted to cool off passengers. Already sweating, giddy, nervous, we hauled our luggage aboard for the ride to Grand Central Station. Time was tight, and we had to get a cab from Grand Central to JFK. We checked our tickets and passports a dozen times on the train. Did we have everything? Surely we've forgotten something vitally important. What the hell are we doing moving to Japan where we don't know a soul and barely speak their language? I hardly remember rushing through Grand Central, my adrenaline took over. There was a sea of people, of all stripes and sizes. We managed to find the row of cabs outside and dramatically told the driver: JFK, as fast as you can. I do remember sitting back in the cab, for a moment thinking, “Look at us, squeezing through New York City masses and traffic on our way to JFK, on our way to Japan.” But I barely looked at the scenery. I didn't soak in New York's--America's--sprawling diversity. Very soon, Michael and would be America to each other, and to virtually everyone we would meet on the island of Hokkaido for the next year. For the first time in our lives, we would be the foreigners and there would be no disguising it.

      JFK to LAX, via Cincinnati. On the plane, we splurged for the cocktail, peeled the foil off the 6x8 beige rectangle that came as dinner, watched the in-flight movie, and wondered what Michael's parents were eating for dinner. There was a short layover in LAX, but we had to transfer to the international terminal, with our luggage. We boarded the shuttle bus, with our overstuffed bags, and dragged everything to the Japan Air check-in counter. We got in line behind neatly dressed Japanese business men and small, subdued families, all with similar hard-cased suitcases on rollers. We shoved our hiking packs forward in the line with our feet and shins. Checked our tickets again; yes, it's the right airline. It had been, what—about 16 or 18 hours on the move already? We were losing energy for conversation. We happily handed over our big bags at the counter and moved right through the security check toward the gates. Walking toward our gate, we looked at the time—still a couple of hours. We stared around at the acres of carpet, the hard plastic chairs and clusters of tan people in waiting areas. Outside, one more time, before getting in another tight-spaced vehicle--we both agreed on getting some fresh air. Why did we rush to the gate? Now we had to walk about half a mile through Departures to get out where the sun was shining—and then back through security again. Beginner's mistake. We did it anyway. Our flight to Tokyo was 10 hours.

      The flight was endless, and only made bearable by Japanese hospitality. The flight attendants, all female, were beacons of tranquility and refreshment, smiling beatifically with bright red lipstick and not a hair out of place, bowing as if grateful for the opportunity to serve. Did we want some hot green tea and rice crackers? A Japanese newspaper in English? They brought us hot facecloths on tiny lacquer trays before serving our bento box dinners of sticky rice, fish, pickled vegetables and fruit. We were not in Pennsylvania anymore.

      Narita airport, Tokyo: a sea of mostly black-haired heads on mostly small-framed bodies, with the occasional head lightened to reddish or streaked with a punky magenta. Eyes started to follow us as we stopped and stared in confusion at signs in both English and Japanese. In Japan, we would later learn, there is never, ever, a lack of customer service and everyone from a car wash attendant to the fancy department store clerk is dressed in a full, spotless uniform. We did not stand gaping for more than a minute.  Outfitted in a smart red and black knee-length dress and low heels, this smiling multi-lingual airport ambassador slowly approached us, asking if we needed help. She politely requested to look at our pile of tickets and with a confident smile told us we needed to transfer to Haneda airport to catch our flight to Sapporo, Hokkaido. Another airport, another shuttle bus, with all the luggage that we just negotiated through customs. We swayed on our heels just thinking about it. It was going on 32 hours with no real sleep for either of us. And, Miss Ambassador added cheerfully, pointing to a small airport map, to get to the Haneda shuttle bus you must ride the light rail to this area. We looked down at the map, our eyes glazing over, our shoulders aching from backpacks and airplane seats. She saw the weariness in our eyes. I will take you there, she said. Like grateful puppies, we followed her through the maze of Narita, to the entrance of the light rail station. She helped us buy train tickets from the hi-tech vending machines. We bowed our first full bow of thanks, and we left her to wait for the train. We thumped down on a railside bench, exhaled in tired relief at each other, then stared around in amazement at this immaculate, sunny rail station. There was not a scrap of trash or a scrawl of graffiti to be found. Not even a wad of gum on the cement. It was like Disney World, but without Mickey and Tinkerbell.

      It took close to two hours to get to Haneda. We checked our bags one more time and boarded for the short flight to Sapporo. Most Japanese people have small, elegant frames. But the younger generation is getting taller and taller, and the Sumo wrestlers have always been bigger, of course. On that flight to Sapporo, on a small puddle jumper plane, I had my only close encounter with what I believe was a Sumo-in-training, a very revered profession in Japan. We were some of the last to board the plane and as I approached my row, I saw a very large, tall young Japanese man on the aisle seat. His eyes locked on me too, for the briefest second. I could almost see the prayer floating above his head, that it wouldn't be me, the gaijin, the foreign woman, that would have the seat next to him. I stopped beside his seat. He heaved himself up gracefully, a long black pony-tail down his back. I nodded, half-bowed, thank you, sorry, excuse me. “Sumi masen. Dozo yoroshiku,” he replied and bowed quickly back: Excuse me. Please go ahead. We sat side by side, trying to pretend the other was not too close for comfort, trying to take up as little space as possible.

      In Sapporo, Matsuoka-san met us as we were leaving the baggage claim area, smiling like the cat who ate the canary. Two foreigners for the price of one! This was his lucky day. He laughed heartily over our stories of being lost in Narita, of the Sumo sitting next to me on the plane. We must be hungry, thirsty. We were, but also too exhausted to even register more than our desperate need to be prone in a dark quiet room that was not moving in any fashion whatsoever. We had been traveling for almost two days straight.

      Matsuoka bought us ramen noodles in the first airport restaurant we came to. Slurp them, he said, make noise while you eat! That is a sign of respect. We obediently slurped, while Matsuoka puffed away on his Mild Seven cigarettes, not eating, assessing our use of chopsticks. “Hashi! Chopsticks! You use chopsticks very well!” he said, clearly surprised and pleased. “How did you learn? Do all Americans know how to use them?” Uh, we don't know, we said. Do we guess at the percentage of chopstick agility in America or just tell him, yes, all Americans know how to use them?

      One more train ride, about 2 hours, from Sapporo to Asahikawa, a city of 350,000 about 10 kilometers outside of Higashikawa. On the way to the train, Matsuoka stopped in front of a huge beverage vending machine and asked if we'd like something for the ride. We peered at the drinks on the front of the machine: Pocari Sweat? Hot Kofe-Latte? Milk Tea? Hot Green Tea? All in a can. Wow. We chose coffee, Michael's black, mine with milk. The cans were hot in our hands as we trundled onto the train and marveled at this bit of new culture. We would come to discover that you could acquire almost anything out of a vending machine in Japan: beer, rice, cigarettes, noodles, neckties.

      We arrived in Asahikawa and stepped out of the station to throngs of people along the Kaimono-Koen, a sprawling shopping district. Young girls in patent leather platform boots and mini-skirts stepped around housewives with aprons, carrying bundles tied together with cloth. A loudspeaker high on a utility pole blared out tinny music. Bizarrely, about 75% of the cars were white.
       As we rubbed our eyes, trying to adjust to the scene, Matsuoka told us we'd be staying in a hotel here in downtown for one night.  The current English teacher will be leaving in a day or two. We entered the small lobby of the bland hotel, Matsuoka paid for our room and told us he'd meet us for breakfast. What time? Eight O'clock, he joked?   Noon, I think to myself, please, have mercy.  We made our way to the room and slowly opened the door. It was about the size of a king-sized bed, the entire room. But it had two slim beds on either wall, about a foot apart from each other.  We used the bathroom, giggling, deliriously at this point, at the array of buttons on what appeared to be a digital toilet. Then we fell into bed, the taste of hot canned coffee still on our breath.  We'd figure out how to flush the toilet in the morning.