Shinjuku to Kamakura to Hase -- A walk down memory lane

Yesterday (my Monday -- Oscar day in LA) I woke up early to a cold rain. It was my day off and I set out for Shinjuku station. I had planned to meet Mr. Suzuki at their stop around 11am and he let me know which line to take...Shoonan Shinjuku to Kamakura, and then the Enoshima line to Hase.

It was easy enough, and when I got to Kamakura station, I picked up some sweets to bring as a gift. The Enoshima line is an electric train over 100 years old. It runs along the Pacific Ocean and the town of Kamakura itself feels like you are stepping back in time. Which era or year is hard to put your finger on.

I called Mr. Suzuki when I arrived at Hase and had just enough time to step into the 100 yen shop for an umbrella (mine was too small) and some AA batteries for my camera. I hadn't seen Tatsuo in 16 years -- and he looked at bit smaller at first, hidden beneath a wool hat under his umbrella. A bit older. But soon enough, when I saw his face, it was the same kind man who met me so many years ago on a Tokyo Platform, shell shocked from an earthquake that killed over 5000 people, hip pack stuffed with the bare necessities and a raging staff infection.

We walked the small path between the houses, bonsai clusters poetically poking out from behind the walls, and the rain smoldering my continuous desire to snap photographs. The front gate of their house was as I remembered but had forgotten -- bamboo lattice above a small wooden door and a patio laid with 'ishi' or rocks, some just bigger than large pebbles, shiny smooth from years of weather and tread. The door opened and there was Yumi, looking as if she had hardly aged (that same smooth skin with a few wrinkles around her eyes). We greeted each other in English -- with a smattering of Japanese, as I stepped inside the genkan. The stones beneath my feet were the same from outside -- an aspect of design I hadn't fully appreciated as a teenager. Gorgeous. I took off my Adidas with the pink stripes and put my backpack down, peeling off the rain jacket layer, and stepped onto the wooden boards of the house, taking a deep breath.

It smelled like my grandparents home in Kennett Square. The house I remember from my childhood. Sweet. Cool. A hint of cedar. Rain on slate. Oil of Olay, back when it was sold in glass bottles. Not just 'like' it -- it was it! Everywhere. Not sure what it is these days with me and smell -- but as far as senses go -- my sense of smell is not just for sniffing stickers.

We went into the living room and I sat on the couch, Tatsuo and Yumi opposite me. How was I, they wanted to know? What had I been up to for the past 16 years? I talked at first of work, of teaching acting, of my present day to day. The game show I filmed on Saturday at TV Asahi. All the while looking around the room that I had spent weeks in, on that same couch, taking antibiotics and watching news reports of the devastation that I had left behind in Kobe. Yumi seemed to sense as much: "You were so unwell when we first met you. You look so healthy now!" she said in Japanese. I nodded, feeling the couch beneath me, glancing up towards the ceiling at the silk inlay between the wood. Remembering the pattern now.

On the wall -- a large print of Andrew Wyeth's "Lighthouse." Behind me -- dolls in glass cases. Like the kind you might see in a museum displaying examples of Japanese culture. Like the one Harvey and Helen had in their basement in Kennett Square, which is located on the border between Delaware and Pennsylvania -- where Andrew Wyeth painted. When I was very little, Helen would put on the Bert and Ernie record for me and I would spend hours in that basement, often pretending that the doll in the case could talk. She was a royal princess I had to protect from the Tiger, when I went on the tiger hunt with Bert and Ernie.

Had I been transported to the Suzukis by divine providence when the 7.2 earthquake rocked Kobe? My body wracked with shock, my leg in danger of being forever damaged -- had the universe conspired to deliver me to a place that felt safe -- a haven my senses would recognize as ultimate protection, long before my conscious mind could ever grasp the parallels?

My mind was spinning. It felt like deja vu -- all this information presenting itself on so many sense memory levels!! I was relieved when I heard the sound of my own voice ask about their recent trip to Taiwan (when in doubt, be polite). They described the museum in Taipei with enthusiasm -- apparently it's one of the best in the world, right up there with The Museum of Natural History in New York and The Louvre in Paris. The collection, Mr. Suzuki explained, had been virtually stolen from China - and although Taiwan is a separate government, the Chinese have never forgotten the riches they lost -- and still keep a watchful (and perhaps calculating) eye on the country, hoping to one day reclaim what was taken from them. They also told me that it was quite popular for Japanese tourists to travel to Taipei just to visit this museum, and that because of the political history of Taipei (having been occupied by Japan during the war) that many people there speak Japanese. They also told me of their other recent travels -- with both their children in the United States they are often in San Francisco or Illinois. And even more often in New York -- where Mr. Suzuki worked for 8 years when their children were young. And where they still have many friends.

It was time for lunch, and we made our way to the kitchen. The table was set for three, and I excused myself to the bathroom to wash my hands. Seeing the sink again, with the western style soap dishes and Japanese toilet -- and the shower where I bathed, brought me back to the memory of my leg - the bandage that had to be changed daily and the care that I had to take, not getting it wet. I think I used a plastic bag with a rubber band around my calf. But I never could take a full bath. It was a pain in the ass -- trying to keep that bandage dry! I returned to the kitchen, and laughed, recalling my first night there when, after we ate dinner, I stood up and promptly passed out cold on their kitchen floor. Yumi smiled and turned to Tatsuo in Japanese -- "remember when she fainted?" Tatsuo nodded, shaking his head and Yumi continued: "You couldn't get your jeans off -- that's how swollen your leg was. Do you remember?"

We sat down and I shook my head. I told them I hadn't remembered that about my jeans. That I also couldn't remember the walk to the train station amidst all the rubble. That I only had one image -- which was the sherbet colored amusement park rides with a collapsed building behind it. And thinking that it seemed "ironic." Another thoughtful pause as we all sat down. Tatsuo asked me what I wanted to drink. Wine? Beer? Water? "A beer sounds great," I told him. "And a glass of water, please."

We ate lunch. Okra and chicken curry, white steamed rice and a spinach salad with mushroom, bacon, and a light vinagrette. Yumi told me that the spinach was from a local farm. The leaves were so green and tasted divine. They asked if I did much cooking, and I told them that I wanted to make "O DEN" -- a Japanese soup. Before I knew it, Yumi heated up the pot she had made the night before! What a lucky girl am I. I told them how I'd bought all the ingredients, but had no idea how to make the stock. Yumi proceeded to explain in Japanese. First, fill the pot with water. Then add your bonito flakes and sea kelp. Keep the flame at a medium heat and add some soy sauce and sake. Taste. Let that simmer a bit longer, and then add your vegetables. Konyaku. Daikon. Anything that you want to add that, as she explained, takes longer for the color to drain from. Don't add your potatoes or hard boiled egg or fish cake too early. It will overpower the taste. Keep the veggies and the stock on a low heat for hours, and then add your fish cake, potatoes, hard boiled egg, etc.

I tasted the bowl of steaming Oden before me. Delicious. The konyaku, which is a grayish colored rubbery kind of gelatin (great source of fiber) was so flavorful -- absorbing the notes of everything and yet still retaining the slippery, solid texture. Yumi told me that I could buy the stock already pre-made, but that the stores tended to make it with "Aji no Moto." Tatsuo added that 'aji no moto' could be a quick solution, but was really just an additive.

I started laughing really hard and they were confused. I explained that I had named my jewelry line "Aji no Moto," thinking that it meant: "Essence of Taste," which is how the old ad from my vintage Japanese poster had translated the brand name. To some, especially a Japanese speaker, it may or may not carry the connotation of MSG. Food for thought. Yumi brought out an apple yogurt cake that she made and we drank hot Japanese tea as I told them about my short stories. Presented them with a copy and let them know that they were in the story about the earthquake. Then I gave them a copy of Kitty, and the necklace I made for Yumi. A single gold leaf on a gold chain. Simple, simple. I also gave them two clothespins covered in Kimono fabric, which Yumi said she would use to hang postcards they intended to send or receive. The clothespins were gifts from Yoshii san, to give as gifts, thank you Yoshii San...

Tatsuo brought two books from the other room. One written by Michiko, their daughter. And one written by Michiko's husband, Michael. Michiko's book explores feminine identity and role of gender in Japanese literature, and Michael's book is a discussion of Japanese folklore -- specifically having to do with ghosts and superstitions. They showed me their wedding photos -- Michiko in a beautiful blue kimono and Michael in a suit, on a deck somewhere in northern California by Carmel. Also pictures of their family in Maine, eating lobsters, with Ken (their son) who had recently graduated from Harvard as an architect. Quite the underachieving family ;)

Only now do I realize the photos I had of my family in my wallet -- tucked beneath credit cards and receipts. I forgot I had them with me and wished I had brought them out! I've become so technologically dependent and disconnected from the tangible. It is a good note to self, especially being here, if and when photos are being shared. I have them in my wallet -- placed there before my departure for Japan for just such an occasion. It goes without saying. We always have more than we think we do.

We headed back into the living room and on the way I noticed a large black and white photo of a dilapidated building. I asked about it and they told me it was Ken's -- taken in Tokyo. His photos later were chosen for an exhibition in Spain entitled "Nowhere in Tokyo," which they got to attend -- and they brought out the book of his images. The phone rang -- it was a neighbor in mid-Marmalade batch with a connundrum over rine and pulp proportions. They excused themselves to advise.

I looked out into the yard, the yard where I read so many of Michiko's books (Specifically "Catcher in the Rye,") and stared at their stone Japanese lantern, once again in awe of the coincidence. It's almost identical to the one in Harvey and Helen's yard, back in Kennett Square. I remembered their Easter Egg Hunt after church. I was 4 or 5 years old, white brimmed hat, Liberty of London dress (made by my grandmother, and identical to my older sister's) black patent leather shoes, carrying my basket as all of us cousins searched for the plastic eggs filled with jellybeans and chocolates wrapped in bright colored foils. The stone lantern sat at the base of a pine tree towards the perimeter of their yard, gracefully complementing the slate wall where the wheat field began. I kneeled beside it and excitedly extended my short arm into the dark cavern, groping for the hidden Easter egg. To my great surprise my hand was met by the stinger of an angry wasp, no doubt protecting her nest. There is a photo of my father, sideburns, black framed glasses and a red cardigan sweater, his sleeves rolled up -- putting wet mud on my bee stung finger. Blowing on it. My eyes are red with crying and my mouth is a slobbery frown as I longingly gaze just past camera, clearly covetous of the other baskets filled with sweet treasures.

When the Suzukis returned to the living room, I ask to snap a photo of the lantern from inside. We talk a bit more of nothing and everything. It was getting towards 5 o'clock -- and although I am usually quite good at making an exit, sensing the winding down of a visit -- I believe I was slow on this particular uptake. IE: I didn't really want to leave. Before I go, they gave me a jar of their homemade marmalade. This batch, they told me, was Tatsuo's. The jar might be hard to open, they added. Then they told me to let them know if I was back -- and that I was always welcome there.

I hugged Yumi at the gate, and Tatuso walked me back to the station in the cold rain. The train was coming, and my card needed more money on it. I ran to put 1000 yen on, and had just enough time to cross with the help of the station master. I didn't get to hug Tatsuo, but we waved from across the platform, he raising his umbrella in the air. "Thank You!" I called. And I saw him smile.

I tried to open the marmalade this morning, eager to spread it on a piece of toast. But try as I did, the jar remains sealed. I will bring it to work, and ask Koda-San if he can put some muscle into it. I put a bit of hot water on, and even tried tapping it on the side of the counter -- but the taste of the marmalade remains a mystery. It is somewhere within the stone lantern. Just waiting for me...to remember it.