Only for my son would I stand at a tiny wooden table, much of it protruding onto a busy sidewalk, popping fleshy little slices of mystery fish into my mouth. No thick pillow of rice to mute the taste, no neat seaweed packaging to disguise the shimmer of a life lived all too recently. Well, I'd do it for my daughters, too, but that kind of dare would be utterly inconsistent with their vegetarian palates.
It's my fourth visit to Japan in so many years. I have been here for a little more than 12 hours, and though my body craves dinner, I have only just eaten breakfast. My son is not with me now; with nothing to prove, I happily passed on the offerings of raw fish and stewed fish and fried fish and things that just looked fishy at the buffet and zeroed in on more familiar fare -- eggs, bread, bacon, fruit, and coffee. Note to self: skip the bacon next time. Maybe I've just been spoiled by the maple glazed slabs I had in St. Louis a few weeks ago.
It should come as a surprise to nobody who knows me even a little that my first official post from Japan is all about the food. It's always about the food, even when it's not. After sheepishly returning three times to the buffet to double and triple down on the croissants and onion loaves -- everything here, not only the shoes, is doll-sized -- a sign next to a tiny toaster caught my eye. Himeji almond toast. A specialty from the little town of Himeji, a town that never seems to make the cut on western maps.
Oddly, I had just been thinking about Himeji (bet that's something most of you have never said). Yes, I had just been thinking about Himeji as I read the newspaper and watched one kimono clad large Japanese man after the other emerge from the hotel elevator, feet swollen around flip flops and hair pulled up into a tight bun. What a difference a day makes. On my last visit to my suburban Starbucks, I had stared at amazement at an impressive albeit run of the mill boob job. Note to self: you ain't seen nothin'. Yawn.
Anyway, Himeji. Himeji is noteworthy for an ancient castle that somehow survived devastating air raids in June and July of 1945, just before the atomic bombs were dropped nearby on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. It is noteworthy for a modest memorial to the victims of those World War II air raids and a museum documenting the carnage of war in the area during the 1940`s. And it is noteworthy, to me, because my son lived and worked there during his first year in Japan, and it is the first place I visited here. In the three years since, he has lived in Kobe, a city a bit closer to Chicago geographically as well as culturally, though still worlds away on both counts.
For four years, though, my son has held out on me. He never told me about Himeji almond toast. I agonized for a moment, feeling conspicuous in my Caucasian skin and after downing enough miniature croissants to feed a Japanese family for a week, but finally decided I had to give it a try. I followed the instructions next to the tiny toaster carefully: select a slice of bread, cover with almond butter in the dish below (I read that as slather), toast until slightly brown on top, and enjoy. I have always had a soft spot for Himeji, but I suddenly have a yen (ha) to go back.
But, alas, there is much to see and do right here in Kobe. As luck would have it, I realized when I arrived I had screwed up my hotel reservation -- right chain, wrong city -- but I managed to cancel it for a small fee and book myself into a surprisingly nice place in a section of Kobe I have never fully explored. As I strolled through the area last night with my son, he warned me there was not much to do. He said this as we passed a gleaming Gucci store on our left, Chanel and Hermes just across the street. As Donald's third ex-wife says (and forgive me if I paraphrase), boys will be boys. So silly.
The day is my own today, to get some work done and maybe do some exploring in the awful area surrounding my hotel. My son is worried I'll be bored. Only for him would I make such sacrifices -- standing around popping chunks of fish flesh and popping in and out of designer boutiques. A mother's love runs deep.
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