Papa John Delivers to Japan

Dad and Cheryl arrived on April 9th, first thing in the morning from a three month trek though Thailand and Indonesia. As I came up the escalators into the arrivals lobby, I saw that familiar shiny brown head peering at me over the rail. They were both well beyond tan and into indistinguishable race territory. I had been looking forward to this visit so much that once they arrived, I was totally flustered and couldn't find my way back to the train, and then put us on the loop going through the airport again rather than back towards my house. No harm done though, and about 20 minutes later we stepped onto the platform at Narita, one of my favorite places to bring visitors, especially for a first impression straight from the airport.


I had the makings of welcome cocktails in my backpack and we walked down the winding road towards Narita-San temple and the temple grounds that I love so much. Dad and Cheryl have some amazing luck as they arrived on the very day that the Cherry Blossoms were announced to be at their peak in Tokyo. In a country with little crime, everyday is a slow news day, and throughout March, roughly 10 minutes of the nightly news is dedicated to the arrival of the Cherry Blossom season. There are maps showing the zones of each type of tree, pictures of the blossoms in different areas, and interviews with people enjoying Hanami (getting drunk under the trees with their friends). The morning they arrived, they brought spring with them, and we had 70 degree weather, blue skies and pink and white pedals raining from the sky.



We fed the fish, had some mimosas under the blossoms, and then walked back into the town for Narita's specialty: grilled eel. At lunch, Dad and Cheryl heard me speaking Japanese for the first time, and I was doing pretty well, ordering the meal, making small talk with the owners, and asking if they could break an ichimon (around $100). When they said they could, my Dad, overly confident in my language ability told the shopkeeper about buying a beer in Indonesia. And the end of his story they both looked at me to translate and I nailed it (almost).
My dad wanted me to say that in Indonesia, if you buy one beer with a dollar, the shop won't have change and will ask you to pay with something smaller. (Dad was experiencing his first, but not last, bout of sticker shock in Japan)

For my Japanese friends, have a laugh at what I said:
おとうさんはいた：　インドに、もし　ビールいぽんを　かいる、まつりを　もてません。

I mixed up the word change 'otsuri' with the word for festival 'matsuri', thereby confidently stating that in Indonesia, if you buy a beer with a dollar, they don't have a festival. First the shopkeeper gave me the obligatory "Oh, is that so?" あ、そうですか, and then a moment later added 'festival?'. At that point I realized my mistake and all was clarified, but I realized what I was in for over the next three weeks. When I speak Japanese, I usually only tell a story or contribute to a conversation if I'm pretty sure I can communicate the point, but with Dad and Cheryl in town, I was constantly on call to translate whatever they felt like saying, and although it was great practice, there were a few times where I had to take some artistic license with what they said.

"Festival?"

After lunch, I showed them my apartment, changed for work, and was out the door to teach 5 classes. During the course of my evening, a small annoying headache during my Junior High class gradually turned into one of those headaches where you feel the need to physically hold your head together. I didn't have any tylenol with me, and while the Japanese painkillers taste wonderful (seriously, like cinnamon!) they do nothing for a headache, so by the time I walked in the door, I was nearly nauseous from the severity of the headache. I took two tylenol immediately, and was not looking forward to the 45 minutes it usually takes to kick in, when my Dad took my left hand and started applying pressure to the two points where your finger bones come together. In Indonesia, someone showed him this technique for pain after he injured himself jumping off a 20 meter (65 feet!) cliff into the sea. He learned it well, because after only a minute I could feel it backing off and after 4 minutes, there was no trace of a headache at all. I was my old cheery self and ready to introduce them to my favorite local dive, Daruma.

Daruma is really only worth going at all because of the owners, a husband and wife in their late 50s, who I am officially nominating for most adorable people in Japan. I told them about my Dad visiting week earlier, and they had been busy preparing by stocking up on spicy food, writing him name on the door to the kitchen, and practicing the pronunciation of Cheryl's name, which with its -ryl ending, is Japanese Kryptonite.

Snorkeling with a Japanese Leek

The locals liked him

The owner of a bar is called Masta (マスター) after the English word 'master'. Masta and Dad instantly formed a bond. Who doesn't like walking into a foreign bar and seeing your name written in permanent marker? I translated back and forth a bit, and when I was busy they communicated the way men do, pointing and grunting. They were old friends by the end of the night and before we left, Masta took out his electronic dictionary and when he found the appropriate word, he offered the dictionary to Dad and then repeatedly pointed back and forth between them with a big smile. I don't know what word he typed in Japanese, but the translation read "Deep Feeling"