From The Future, A Preview: This story is about my buying a bowl from a local noodle shop. I use this bowl every day that I am home. I eat everything out of this bowl. It is a big bowl in my life. This is the story of how I came to acquire this magnificent bowl.
Alright. We’re back.
Yes, it’s finally here. What you’ve all been waiting for. Maybe you thought it would never come. But it’s here. The bowl story.
Let’s go.
Right off the bat, I have to tell you. For this post, I’m trying something new, which is why it feels weird to be calling this a post. I’m writing this post out entirely by hand, instead of typing it out first, as I usually do. I’m doing this because of something that our good man Barack Obama said, when he was talking about how he writes everything out on legal pads (his medium of choice – for me, it’s scrap paper that I’ve accumulated at the school and taken home, failed or overprinted copies of worksheets and whatnot). He writes first, he says, because it helps him to avoid “half-baked thoughts.” That stuck with me, and as I don’t want to be writing half-baked thoughts, and posting half-baked posts, I thought I’d try doing it Obama style, this time. Although, if blog posts are anything like cookies, half-baked may just be best.
Without further ado, then, let’s get into the bowl story.
This story is really about a bowl. I eat out of this bowl every day, usually several times a day. I have four bowls. One I made, two I inherited, and one I bought, and it’s the bought bowl that this story is about.
The story takes places many months ago. It was the day that James, the Ubuyama JET, was leaving Kumamoto. He has since been succeeded by another James, from Australia, who I had met for the first time on Christmas Eve, at our small Christmas party. He’s from the Gold Coast, is allergic to nuts, and raw strawberries, and tomatoes, had never seen snow before coming to Kumamoto, has a different pronunciation for merry, Mary, and marry. He comes from an area of about 800,000, to a town of, what, several thousand at most. His new house is surrounded by trees, with only two neighboring houses, where the school administrators stay when they don’t want to go back to their real homes. His closest grocery store is about 20 minutes away. His car has immediately failed him. The engine light came on, and when he got it checked out by a mechanic, the mechanic plugged his computer into the car and said, “Well I’ve never seen this before!” Which is always what you want to hear your mechanic say. He will probably have to buy a new car. So Australian James is having a nice welcome to Kumamoto experience. We did try to give him a proper welcoming, and show him a good time, American Christmas style, and he tried snickerdoodles and cinnamon rolls for the first time. I asked my friend Ryoka chan if she had had cinnamon rolls before and she said, “Yes, of course. Why?” And I told her that my new friend James hadn’t, and she was shocked. Her words: “What? How does this happen?” Which is a great question that I will ask James about the next time I see him – how and why are Australians not eating cinnamon rolls.
At the party, we played a round of rock-paper-scissors. That is, we played the American version. Now, you may be surprised to hear this, but there are other versions of rock-paper-scissors. Other variants. The Japanese have two. They have the Japanese version, which is jyan-ken-pon, and then they have their English version, which is rock-scissors-paper. For me, who’s spent my whole life playing it rock-paper-scissors, who has known nothing else, this just feels wrong. Australian James (I think we’ve found our nickname here. Australian James has a nice ring to it. Like Indiana Jones. Who is known in Japan as Indy Jones. I discovered this when I was telling my classes that I was from Indiana, which unsurprisingly almost no one knows about, because it’s not Texas, New York, Florida, Hawaii, or one of those big cities in California, and when I would say, do you guys know Indiana Jones, they would stare at me blankly, and then I would sing the theme song, and then they would say, “Indy Jones!!”) Australian James taught us yet another way, the Australian way, which is paper-scissors-rock. Somehow this one is more palatable to me. I think I don’t like ending on paper. I’m writing about this because when we told James about the other American version, rock-paper-scissors-shoot! He said, “Yep, that’s just like Americans.”
Annie, Emily, and I were taking American James out to lunch, before his flight to Tokyo. He had taken a new job in Saitama, teaching kindergarteners. This was last April, I believe. Annie gave James a ride to the Kumamoto airport, which is a ten or fifteen minute drive from my place in Ozu, and so we had lunch in Ozu, at a place that Emily’s predecessor (the ALT before Emily, in the JET world we call them predecessors; some people call them ‘preds’, but the first time I heard that I immediately thought, ‘predator’, so it hasn’t really caught on with me) had taken her to before he left. This place is よも麵 (yomomen), a small, unassuming local noodle shop posted up next to the Ozu public library.
Our squad shows up at about 2 pm on a Sunday. We walk in, are greeted, and directed towards to ticket vending machine on our left. This machine is frequently found in noodle shops. They will take your order and your money, and issue a ticket in return, that details your order, that you then give to the staff. I really enjoy these ticket machines. So we turned to this particular ticket machine (I’m now wondering what this thing is actually called in Japanese – I know vending machine is 自動販売機, jidouhanbaiki, or 自販機, jihanki, for short) and started to peruse the menu. At this time, I took it upon myself to read what was written on each of the buttons, and explain the meaning, to my friends, who are all at least as Japanese savvy as I am, James much more so, and so they could quickly point out all my errors. “See here, these are the hot noodles. This means hot. And these are the cold noodles. That means cold. And these are the happiness noodles. This means happine-” “Those are spicy noodles.” And here, in my defense, was a mistake that anyone could have made. The kanji for happiness and spicy are dangerously similar, as is the case with many kanji. Here’s happiness – 幸い、and here’s spicy – 辛い. Tricky, right. And here’s two more tricky ones – 士 (samurai)土 (ground). And then there’s 末 (end) and 未 (not yet). I guess this is what happens when you have tens of thousands of these things. There’s just gonna have to be some trickery.
I do like the idea of happiness noodles and I think someone should be selling them.
So anyways, after reading almost every label on the machine, mainly to myself, as the friends stopped listening awhile ago, it was my turn to order. I had decided that for me, I didn’t need to know what I was ordering – I just needed to know the price. I was incredibly hungry, and so I just wanted max food, and at a noodle place, this means whatever is the most expensive. So I found the most expensive option, all the way down at the bottom right, put in my money, pushed the button, and got my ticket. I handed it to the nice looking store owner, a younger-middle-aged woman, and sat down at the end of the row. And so this was the beginning of what would become an unusually eventful restaurant experience.
It turned out that out of all of the tickets, I should have read mine, because right after sitting down, the woman came up to me and said, hesitatingly, and in good English, “Um.. Excuse me, but, this is takeout. Do you want takeout?” My friends are amused. I look at the ticket, and it says, お持ち帰り, omochikaeri (literally meaning, “take home”. It’s definitely takeout. I tell her that I want to eat in the restaurant, and that I chose this because I was really hungry, and it was the most expensive thing on the menu. She understands, and asks me if I want hot or cold noodles. I think about it for a moment, and tell her, cold. She gives me some money back. She turns and starts to walk away, when I suddenly remember to slip in a, “肉なし、できますか？” Nikunashi, dekimasuka? Can you make it without meat? And she turns to me, in confusion. After a moment, she replies. “But, this is a basashi restaurant..”
I’ve mentioned this before, about how every prefecture, even every town, has a specialty, or multiple specialties. Oita has the toriten that I told you about (the rare chicken), and it has yuzu, a green citrus fruit, and Kumamoto has ikinari dango, and basashi. Among other things. Basashi is horse meat. They eat it raw and they eat it cooked. I’ve had it both ways and cooked is definitely better. Being a specialty, you don’t eat basashi often, and you can’t just get it anywhere. Most people usually only eat it for New Years. It’s a delicacy, you could say. So you can imagine what this woman is thinking, when this guy walks in here, to her specialty basashi restaurant, and tells her, leave out the basashi, and this after ordering the most expensive thing on the menu without reading it, because he’s hungry. Whatever she was thinking in that moment, she had no problem accommodating me, and after confirming that I was fully aware of what I was asking of her, she set off to make it. So, our relationship was already off to a fun start, her and I’s.
Now my friends and I are sitting, talking, waiting for the food, and after a few minutes, Annie’s bowl comes. I could say that Annie’s noodles came, but in that moment, the noodles were the farthest thing from my mind. What was on my mind, then, was not the noodles, but the bowl, because the second that I had laid eyes on that bowl, I was struck with a thought, and the thought was this – That is a really nice bowl. On reflection, I realized that I have never been struck by a bowl in this way. I wonder if I ever will again. But this bowl, as soon as I saw it, I was aware of it, it’s quality, it’s shape. To me, it looked just like the shell of a conch snail, like the queen conch I had spent some time working with on my study abroad in Belize. It was large and layered and spiraling. It was a nice bowl. And I comment on this to my friends. “That’s a nice bowl!” I say. They look at it, and give some slight nods of agreement, a pretty muted response. As Annie goes in for the first slurp, and I’m still watching it. I say to them, “It looks just like a snail’s shell!” Annie looks at it one more time. “Yeah..!” She says, noncommittally. It’s clear that I’m the only one so moved by this bowl, but it does not frustrate me. I think more about the bowl. How I’ve never felt this way about a bowl. It is a fine piece of craftsmanship. Where did it come from? Custom made? Did they make it themselves? My bowl comes. I then note the size – it’s a sizeable bowl, larger than any of mine. A great size. As I’m eating, I make yet another comment to my friends. “This is such a nice bowl!” And then I added, half-jokingly, “I wonder if they’ll sell it to me!” And Annie replies, “You should try!” And at first, it wasn’t a serious thought, not entirely. But after her response, I realized – I should try. This bowl could be mine, and all I have to do is ask. The shopkeeper must already think I’m somewhat ridiculous. I would only be living up to the first impression I’d created for myself, by straight-up asking her if I could buy this bowl. I have nothing to lose, and a bowl to gain. And so, the next time she walked by, I caught her attention. “Excuse me..” “Yes?” “This is a really nice bowl. I was wondering, uh.. can I buy it?” My friends are now laughing, but I’m not – I’m completely serious. The shopkeeper is unsure what to say. She thinks about it for a moment. “Well, I’ve never sold a bowl before.. and they’re all used. Is that ok?” I reply, “No problem.” She thinks for another second. “Ok,” she says. “Just a moment.” She goes into the back of the store.
I am surprised. It’s farther than I thought I’d get. I turn to my friends. She’s going to sell me the bowl! And now the question is forming in my mind. What will I pay for this bowl? What is my maximum? What can she get me for? I try to come up with a good number, if she asks me for a price. I want the bowl. Clearly, I am moved by it. I am impressed with the quality, the design. I am also not a man who knows anything about pottery or bowl-making, and so I have no idea what the real worth of this bowl is. 1000円？4000円? I can’t tell, but I settle on 2000 being my maximum (that’s about $20), although I probably would go for 2500, if it came to it. If she asks me to give a price, I don’t want to offend her, either. If I go too low, maybe she’ll think I’m not even worthy of having the bowl after all. I’m not trying to rip her off – I want to give her a good price for the bowl. I’m thinking about these things when she comes out from the back and walks over to me. “Ok,” She says. “I have a bowl. It’s used. You’re ok with that?” I say again yes, and then I ask the question. “How much?” Hoping she doesn’t have me name a price. Wondering if I’d really hold to my maximum. She thinks for a moment, then says, tentatively, “Mmm, 500円?” And I couldn’t believe it. “Really?” I said. For that price, I’d buy five, ten of these babies. I almost told her then that I’d pay more for it, and part of me felt like I really should give her more for such a magnificent bowl.. but I said nothing more than an emphatic, “Yes!”
For having never sold a bowl before, she knew how to wrap it. I walked out of there with my new bowl, bubble-wrapped and encased in cardboard, feeling like a brand new man. As we left, I said my many arigatougozaimasu, and promised that I’d be back. Bowl aside, the noodles were incredible. And I’ve since been back, and I made sure to thank her again for the bowl, and to tell her that I use it every day. I think like me she must have a fond memory of that day, because it can’t be often that one of her customers orders takeout without wanting takeout, requests basashi-less noodles, and asks to buy a bowl, all in the same visit. I told Mr. Parker Junior about the bowl, and the story, and when he finally got to see it, I said “What do you think?” And I don’t think he was too impressed with it. But whether it impresses anyone else or not, that doesn’t matter. It will always be a special bowl for me, not just because it is functionally and aesthetically flawless, but because it also has something else, something better: a story.
So, that’s the end of the bowl story. It came out to be about eight pages of fully baked thoughts. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. This is a significant moment, an achievement, a milestone in this blog’s history. The day the bowl story was finally told!
I’ve already written so much. I wanted to talk a bit about the clothes. I don’t want to write much now. My hand is cramping. For now, I’ll just say this. I am investigating. This is a complex issue. I’ve since bought a sweater and a pair of pants. Expensive, somewhat. Made in Japan. The pants were 100% cotton. Where does the cotton come from? The sweater was 66% synthetic fiber. On synthetic fibers – 35% of the microplastics in the ocean come from synthetic textiles (according to a report from the International Union for Conservation of Nature). We absorb toxins from these textiles through our skin. Not good stuff. There is a lot to consider. I also bought some secondhand clothes. Did you know that only 10% of the clothing in secondhand stores is sold (as of 2015)? I’m starting to acquire a lot of little facts like this.
Anyways, that’s it for this post. It’s the holidays! Ho ho ho! I should be writing about Japanese Christmas. I can sum this up in a single paragraph. They like Kentucky Christmas (ordering KFC takeout on Christmas). Last Christmas and All I Want For Christmas Is You are the two most popular Christmas songs here. Japanese snowmen have two balls in their body. None of my students know the name of the reindeer with the shiny red nose. They also don’t know that Santa lives in the North Pole, or that he’s married. Most of them don’t know that bad children get coal for Christmas. Some of them know that people give Santa milk and cookies. Some of them know that the toys are made by elves. (When I pose this question to my students, “Who makes the toys for Santa?” I often get the answer, “Small human.”) Only kids get presents, in Japan, and the parents usually put the presents on their pillows, even when they have a Christmas tree. Some people put up lights and decorations on their houses, but not most. They do not know about gingerbread houses or gingerbread cookies. They do know about stockings, and snowball fights. I have told my students that they should get presents for their parents for Christmas, and I don’t think anyone is going to take me up on that suggestion. Home Alone is popular. I guess that’s a Christmas movie? I didn’t know that. I’m not a movie guy. I have surprised more than a few Japanese people by telling them that I haven’t seen Back To The Future.
Ok, this is the end for real. I hope you had a Merry Christmas and are gearing up for a fantastic New Year. Happy Holidays, and unless the hot fire of inspiration strikes me before then, see you in 2021!
HAKUMUSU 