Our Journey Begins
As I approached the lakeshore, I noticed a solitary Asian woman in a red jacket. She stood next to the dock and stared at the smooth surface of the water ...
I put on my lifejacket and stole a sideways glance at the woman. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth set in a tight line. I wondered if something was troubling her and why, in this resort crowded with over fifty guests, she had chosen to be alone.
“Do you know who that is, Pauline?” I asked.
She shrugged. “She must have come with one of the relatives.”
I turned to the woman and smiled, unaware that I was about to forge my first link to Japan.
How to Take a Bath
“In Japan,” [Mariko] continued, a phrase she would repeat every time she introduced new cultural information, “we have a hot bath every night.”
Mike protested. “Actually, I prefer a shower.”
Mariko pulled herself up to her full height of five-and-a-half feet and attempted to look my six-foot, four-inch husband directly in the eye. “In Japan,” she repeated, quietly but firmly, “we have a hot bath every night.”
A bell chimed from somewhere upstairs, and a high-pitched female voice wafted from a small speaker on the kitchen wall.
“Ah! Your bath is ready,” said Mariko. “Lesley-san, you can go first, and then Mike-san. But remember, please do not let out any water.”
Fire!
The hotel lobby was bedlam.
Sirens blared. Red and yellow lights flashed. Fire hoses snaked across the floor. The driveway outside was blocked by two Saitama City fire trucks emblazoned with the name “Saitama Brave Heart”. A circle of firemen in yellow helmets and green jackets stood by the front desk, holding a meeting. Five blue-shirted paramedics clustered around an empty gurney. A chef in a tall white hat ran back and forth. White-aproned kitchen staff huddled in a corner.
A dozen grey-haired, black-suited businessmen stood outside the glass front door in a haze of cigarette smoke.
...
The fire trucks turned off their sirens and the kitchen crew disappeared. I decided to approach the desk clerk again.
“Sumimasen,” I begged as gently as I could, “Takushi kudasai?”
His eyes widened and his face blanched.
“Takushi? Ima?!” he wailed: Taxi now? The “a” sound at the end of "ima" rose to a crescendo worthy of Pavarotti.
Then he ran off into the back office.
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