Hokkaido – Hawaii – Home

My flight didn’t leave until morning. After checking in with my hotel once again, I walked back to my favorite restaurant. Usually I chide myself for not exploring other dishes on a menu that is so new to me. Not this time: I enjoyed grilling and eating my crab and seafood as much as before. Hedonism had its place.
At Chisote airport — the tourist crossroads of land and air — the gaijin surfaced. Where had they been hiding? Westerners were still only one in twenty, but that was a lot for Japan, certainly for Hokkaido.
I tried listening to conversations, hoping to hear where people have been or just to hear the unfamiliar sound of English. I kept waiting. Hebrew I recognized, and Russian. Something else I couldn’t recognize. I still hadn’t heard English, at least not without a Japanese accent.
I saw an elderly woman with blue hair. It wasn’t the stark blue of an American youth trying to be punk: just a hue dyed into gray hair. This was great! When I’m 80, I hoped to have as much spunk.
As I considered further, I seemed to recall something about this color for older women in the States, though I couldn’t remember seeing any. Was it an old person thing? I would expect older Japanese to be very conservative and conforming; yet I had seen no other people in Tokyo or elsewhere sporting the shorter end of the spectrum. Brown, black and elsewhere even red; but blue? It must have some level of acceptance to be done at all in Japan. But hey, I had to give this lady credit: she stood out; she made a statement, even if a gaijin couldn’t interpret it correctly. Good for her. I almost wanted to shout, “You GO, girl!” Then again, an American yelling at her in a public place might not be that encouraging. Still, I was encouraged.
Fortunately this flight would take me to Narita directly; no stop at Haneda, the domestic airport near Tokyo. No need to figure out ground transport and luggage. Relaxing with this thought as the plane flew over Honshu, I reviewed my visit.
I’d done a number of things right, not just in various conference rooms. I kept watching, ever mindful of how inconvenient it would be to slip on ice while walking, to wrench my knee skiing, to miss my train or plane connection. I kept repeating my mantra: “don’t screw up,” knowing it is a goal upon which to focus — never completely attainable but forgiving to a certain degree. Just keep moving forward, I told myself. Keep your eyes open; navigate the culture as best you can.
There was a logic to all this, I felt assured, even while I remained confused. Japan is a culturally engineered society. The “best way” is determined; how this will be achieved is consciously decided, enacted into “social law.” This decision is communicated to a common degree of understanding, that everyone must behave in this way for the good of society. If everyone buys into this thinking, then there is no problem. “Daijobu.”
From my American point of view – capitalism and the frontier spirit – I did consider it to be a problem … for the people who have another view, for those who want to find another option, a different approach. What connotations did the word “different” have in Japanese? Something bad? Things or people to be avoided? I laughed at myself. Ever since leaving my private high school at 18, I’d stepped off the straight and narrow path. In exploring myself and the world, I’d become a bit odd, unusual and sometimes weird in a creative sort of way. How ironic that someone so “not normal” should find a place in a society where normality is revered. I was playing my “American wild card.” Good thing my Japanese associates didn’t know that my odd ways were more than the behaviors of a different culture.
I had left Minnesota not because of the cold winters, but because it was “too normal” for me. I needed more alternatives than the straight paths could offer. Given this, it would surely have been problematic for me to grow up in Japan! I saw this “group think” as a problem for learning, for developing independent thought in a society that teaches esteem for group goals. Esteemed group, or esteemed goals? I liked to do my own esteeming, thank you. Now I was misusing English words myself! Proof that I was being influenced by my Japanese experience. And wouldn’t it be sad if I weren’t influenced by the people and places I encountered?
Perhaps I was being too harsh about this perceived group-think. Maybe individual expression was there in subtle ways. But no, I could only see it in the voices of a limited few: Masa Son of Softbank and blue haired ladies of Hokkaido. I would cheer them on.
At Narita, I waited for my plane by perusing the duty free shops. It seemed people were eager to spend their Japanese coinage as if it were their last chance to dump the currency before it dropped in value.
Since this was a night flight, the little restaurant upstairs was closed. I bought a draft beer from a bar near the gate and sipped it while people lined up to board. Almost everyone was Japanese, or at least Asian. Perhaps this was due to my customary routing through Hawaii for my day of R&R before re-entering the pace of work and life in Silicon Valley. I looked forward to this little detour.
Hawaii was a major vacation spot for Japanese. It was only half way to the U.S. mainland. Moreover, these little islands were much more manageable. Many of the restaurants had dual menus. It was quite different from being dropped into the middle of San Francisco, New York or L.A. I remembered the news years before of Japanese flocking to Hawaii to buy Viagra. Maybe Honolulu was their Las Vegas.
Amidst the line of lean Asians came two huge westerners, a man and a woman. I’d never seen anyone so out of place in a queue. These two were not overweight: they were obese. They flowed out of their clothing. It was as if they were being filled with gas and their torsos assumed a round shape. Efficiency in physics; problems in health. I pitied the poor Japanese who had to fit in around these two!
When most of the line had streamed past, I got up and checked in. Finding my seat number, I gasped in horror! Before me I saw both huge specimens of the dangers of over-eating now occupying my row, and indeed my window seat. It was understandable that they would spread out; indeed I was uncertain that they could fit together adjacently.
“We were hoping no one would show up,” said the gentleman. I looked around desperately. There were a few empty seats. I looked for a flight attendant. Maybe she could reseat me after take-off? Maybe I could convince her it was unsafe to have so much ballast on one side of the aircraft? Seeing no one, I squeezed into my window seat. The fellow next to me overflowed into my space. His arms had nowhere else to go. I waited to get airborne.
Once aloft, I found that others had shifted places already. I could either barge in between two people who were now happy to have an empty center seat or just endure the ride. I sighed in reservation. What were the odds?
This had nothing to do with odds. Someone at the airline had decided that Westerners would be happier seated together. How considerate! Maybe I could sleep, I told myself. Leaning against the window, I endured one of the worst flights ever.
In Honolulu, the bus attendant showed everyone the two finger salute for “Mahalo,” inviting us to relax and reminding us to tip – a good businessman, hitting them early before they were out of money or more savvy to panhandlers. I reached my hotel on the outskirts of the Waikiki run.
I looked at the rate as I was checking in: $150 a night. I’d reserved on the Internet for $75. I loved the discounts offered on-line to early adopters. These wouldn’t last, I surmised; eventually enough people would be lured on-line that the advertising objective would be met and the discount, if any, would be minimal. For now, it was a good deal.
So I thought until I went into the room. It had a musty air about it. I opened the window and reflected on the clean, efficient Japanese rooms of the last two weeks. Ironically, this wasn’t much larger; but hey, I had a base camp in paradise.
I walked around the beach at Waikiki, meandering in and out of the shops. I caught a bus to Hanauma Bay. As soon as I entered the water, fish appeared, swimming in less than a foot of water. My wife loves to swim — in swimming pools. Any place that has a hint, a possibility of fish and creatures roaming about is strictly off-limits to her. I wondered what Annie’s reaction would be to Hanauma. I went out deeper, toward the center of the crater that was now a bay. I dove to see schools of fish so brightly colored it seemed some childlike god had gotten loose with a rainbow of markers. When one is used to the muted colors of bass, crappies, and walleyed pike, these ocean fish dazzled like the hypnotist’s trinket.
R&R after a long business trip. I enjoyed the flexibility and independence I had in this job to do things my way. A little slack makes up for much of the frustration. I sat back with a beer, overlooking the gentle waves and reviewed the time. Two weeks in Japan. It had generally been a good trip. Business objectives had been accomplished, as far as I could determine. Personal adventure accomplished, with considerably more certainty.
Two weeks is a long time. I missed my girls back home. Even though they mostly seem to breeze past on the way to somewhere, I liked being close to them. I wanted to bring them along sometime, to show them how to figure out a strange city, to make a phone call, to ride a bus or subway, to order food when you don’t know the language. I’d like to teach them about getting around, about saying hello in a foreign language, about finding uniqueness and beauty in the little things around them.
I hoped I hadn’t let anything slide in my absence. There were always worries of bank balances, cancellation notices, missed stock trades and the like. As Ashley would remind me, “Oh well!” I was amazed at how well she has learned those important basics. I couldn’t teach her how to manage money or careers well. At least I could encourage her to enjoy her life, despite the troubles.
Japan: I liked the people. To the western eye, the culture often seemed incomprehensible, even screwed up. Yet remarkably, the people smile right through it, spirit undaunted. It would be interesting to watch as its people find ways to express that spirit individually, or more outwardly as a group.
I hoped to come again, some way, some day. I wondered whether I’ll still be with Itochu in six months time, in a year. Maybe their plans for an investment company might keep me. Maybe the incentives of a start-up would lead me elsewhere. The only certainty before me were the blue waves washing up on the shore, one after another.