Land of My (Surp)rising Son

Seen one shrine, seen 'em all. Not really, except maybe to my untrained eye.

On this, my fourth trip to Japan, I travelled within a much smaller radius than I had in the past. And, for the first time, I felt at home in this faraway place, a place my son calls home, at least for now.

For the first time, I did not make it to Tokyo, though everyone has told me I must see the fish market. I did not make it to Kyoto, though I have been known to tout it as a fascinating and picturesque juxtaposition of ancient and modern Japanese culture. No Hiroshima, which has taken my breath away several times, and no Nagasaki -- still to be checked off on my bucket list.

For the first time, I visited Japan in the fall, not during one of my son's summer vacations. The oppressive heat of August was gone, as was the awkwardness of descending upon my grown son while he juggled the temporary disappearance of his normal schedule and the temporary intrusion of a jet-lagged mother trying to make the most of every moment on her journey halfway around the world.

Left to my own devices for a couple of days, I wandered the streets of Kobe alone, learning about the city in the way our kids first figure out the layout of their neighborhood when they get their drivers' licenses. I walked when I could, took taxis or trains when I had to, becoming increasingly familiar with the ever changing neighborhoods. I took wrong turns, and experimented with paths not yet taken. I overcame my abject fear of gesticulating wildly in an attempt to communicate with people who have no reason to speak English.

And when I spent time with my son, it reminded me of what it used to be like, when we would share mundane moments together, doing ordinary things. We played tennis in the rain. We compared notes on how startling it was to be caught in an earthquake, each of us in different locations somewhere not too far (in the grand scheme of things) from the epicenter. We ate greasy hamburgers outside a non-descript shack in a Kobe suburb, and enjoyed countless delicious and inexpensive meals in crowded, seemingly nameless joints in the heart of the city. I met his friends, watched his band play. I did not set foot in a shrine or a temple, did not purchase any souvenirs.

On my last day, I visited the school where my son works. I met the young children who adore him, the coworkers who respect him for his competency and have no idea he once tried to boil an unopened Pepsi can while he was supposed to be watching his younger sister. I relished being Matt's "mommy," wanted to explain to the children who, at first, eyed me with suspicion, that he is my baby, my little boy. That I used to drop him off and pick him up at school, that I am as thrilled each time I  catch sight of him now, when he is 26 years old, as I was when he was their age. I wanted to tell them that he wasn't always so tall and lean.

I leave with light luggage after a shopping free week, counterbalanced by a heavy heart. I hate that I won't see him again for months, and that we will both slip comfortably into our own lives, where my daytime is his nighttime, and where it just isn't easy to share a mundane thought or an ordinary, inconsequential laugh. But, having seen him as he lives and works over there, I can't help but feel proud, and even a little happy that he is in a place so magical, doing such good things.