Buy the Tricorn!

At Williamsburg there are great spots to browse, including an open air market. When I was there this week , I enjoyed wandering among the items for sale - all with a colonial bent. I strolled among lavender scented soaps, chocolate prepared from a historically accurate recipe, toy drums and muskets, wooden hoops and checkers. 

A family browsed nearby, parents and two daughters. The mother had walked a bit away towards the home goods and the father was engaged with his girls. "Look, mom!" the older,  eight-year-old-ish daughter called. She stood, dressed in a fluffy pink coat, her brown hair slipping from its ponytail with a wide grin on her face. Perched jauntily atop her head was a black tri-cornered hat. She stood beaming, waiting for her mother's approval. 

Her mother looked up at the girl and in an exasperated voice said. "Take that hat off! That hat is for boys!" 

Well. 

To say every feminist hair on the back of my neck stood on end is to underestimate my reaction. Like a bull ready to charge a matador, I saw red. My breathing increased, my heart rate soared, and I drew myself up 2 inches beyond my normal height. 

Unfortunately, there was little I could do. But I could not remain silent. 

I sidled up to the mom, out of earshot of the daughter.  "Your daughter looked so cute in that tricorn. If I'd been lucky enough to have a daughter, I would have bought her that tricorn in a heartbeat!" 

The mom looked over at me, unhappy about my interference. By then, the daughter was within hearing range. Mom responded. "Oh, her dad is trying to make her into a pirate!" 

I parried, "There were some kick-ass female pirates." The mother did not deign to answer, but the girl gave me a lopsided grin. 

Mom bought something for the household and they soon walked off, the daughter giving the tricorn a longing look over her shoulder. 

This whole exchange took maybe 5 minutes out of my day, but the moment has stayed with me. There is no one moment that defines us as women, but there are many individual moments that add up to tell us who we are, what our roles are, what we can accomplish and what limits us. 

And generally speaking, we women can do most everything men can except have a prostate exam, father a baby, and pee standing up. 

We can most certainly wear a tricorn or be a pirate.

Heida Reed of Poldark plays Elizabeth Chynoweth

When I was a very young girl, I thought the options open to me were teacher, nurse, or secretary. My sister was already set on being a nurse, so since I didn't like the idea of being beholden to a boss I chose teacher. But when I got to high school, I was able to evaluate my skill set. I was good at math. So I talked to my math teacher about a new(ish) field, computer science. She lent me her college textbook and encouraged my interest. 

I had always been told I could do anything I wanted to, because I had been treated like an individual, not buttonholed into a "girl" role. My parents encouraged me in math, before I even knew girls "were bad at math."  I rode shotgun with my dad on the farm.  I got Legos when Legos were for boys. I never questioned my ability to be successful. My parents gave me the gift of teaching me to believe in myself.  Despite the warning from my  best friend's sister that I would change my major after my first Calculus class (most enjoyable A I ever earned) I flourished in my classes. 

So when our girls - and I mean "our" in the sense of "our village" - "our community" - "our country" - when our girls want to succeed and in fact, exceed, we need to be ready to say YES. YES, you can do math. YES, you can compete. YES, you are worthy. YES, you have every right to do and be WHATEVER YOU WANT! 

I'm proud of my grown boys in so many way, but  one of the things I'm the most proud of is their feminist bent. They, too, hold fast to the dream, to the promise, to the reality that men and women are created equal. There is no one reason why. But one element of their villages' message can be found in the book The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes by DuBose Heywood. Written in 1939, this book tells the story of Cottontail - who wanted desperately to be one of  the five Easter Bunnies, but is told "to go home and eat a carrot."  So, she cleverly teaches her 21 baby  bunnies to  pitch in and care for the home so she can help at Easter. She  achieves her goal. 

This book was given to my older son when he turned 4 by our neighbors, the Mohars.  Bob and Kathleen were part of the tapestry that defined to our sons the role of women and men in society. Because it really does take a village. 

My message, my urgent message to you is to tell our girls they can do anything they want! Give them positive female role models. Read to them about women astronauts, scientists, lawmakers, and PIRATES. Show them that their place is the world is BESIDE the men in their lives, not BENEATH (!) them. SPREAD the good word!

Don't have a daughter? I don't care. You do have girls in your life. You are part of their tapestries. Your behavior towards women and their capabilities influence their perception of what they can and can't do. Ask them about their favorite subjects, encourage them in their team sports and BUY THEM THE  @#$%&^% TRICORN!

Unexpected Blessings of the Unexpected

 My son got married this past weekend. Preceded by a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Preceded by a lot of planning. (Clarification, most of the planning was carried out by the Bride and the Mother of the bride. But still.)

So when things got cranked up on Friday, I genuinely expected it would all go as smooth as silk.

I expected wrong.

Friday, I was blessed to have a church friend stay with Mary Frances according to her preference so she could save her energy for Saturday. That went well.

And our trip to Winston Salem was safe. Praises.

But as we walked into the lovely Moravian church for rehearsal setup the sole of my right shoe suddenly and dramatically separated from the upper, nearly sending me sprawling. I couldn’t even walk without tripping. I was a circus clown flapping around. I had to have another pair of shoes.
So I quickly googled shoe stores near me and found a SAS store 3.8 miles away.

In the meantime, Earle realized that I needed a micro HTMI to mini HTMI cable. Or the 110 slide Powerpoint Presentation of photographs of the bride and groom growing up that I had spent umpteen hours preparing for the reception would not be playable from my computer.
So after a brief discussion, with an hour to go before rehearsal, we set out.

I had been high strung all day, nervous as a cat in a dog house, so entering a new shoestore staffed by two welcoming ladies with no other customers was, I’m not gonna lie, satisfying. They grabbed every brown pair of shoes in the store, engaging me with wedding questions all the while. They gave Earle directions to the Best Buy and off he went. I purchased a nice pair of tasseled loafers and waited, eating chocolate from my sales ladies, for Earle’s return. Which didn’t take long.

When he pulled in front of the store, I checked my watch. We had 30 minutes left. Awesome!

Except it wasn’t.

He hadn’t found the Best Buy. But he was determined to save the day (and to insure all my PP efforts paid off.) So we pulled out our phones and searched. We headed back out. He had ALMOST gotten there the first time.

Except. Rush hour traffic. Lots of it. We were awash in a sea of cars.

It took time. So much that Zack got worried and called. I was waiting in the car while Earle ran into Best Buy.  Earle was in the store, had found a cable and was caught behind a woman chatting with the saleswoman about how happy she was to find Polaroid film while the line grew behind him.

Back in the car my anxiety cranked and cranked and cranked. We had T-10 for the rehearsal. Earle at last reappeared, jumped in the car. According to Google maps we’d be back to the church in 15 minutes.

Except traffic. MORE of it. Nail-bitingly bumper to bumper.

My anxiety grew.

We eased towards the church. And then -  FULL STOP. At the third cycle of ONE stoplight I about lost it. Not knowing whether to vomit or cry, I texted a friend and asked for prayer. I was missing my own son’s rehearsal. 100 times worse than missing anything I could think of. I was crushed.  My husband, who usually rants at traffic, was mollifingly quiet.

At last we made our way forward and found to our dismay it had been a three car accident. Maybe being late wasn’t the worst thing that could happen after all.

Defeated, we arrived at the church at 4:30 pm to find everyone clustered around the foyer. Their genuine concern and reassurance in the face of our frazzled and regret filled entry warmed and lifted us. My older son’s wife had stood in for me in the first run-through and shored me up with encouragement. I received hugs and shook hands as I offered apologies. It was messy, it was embarrassing. It was love. Because in our deepest times of vulnerability, when we feel like failures or ridiculous, we are lifted up and buoyed by family, old and new, who accept us where we are and as we are, who assign the purest motives to our mistakes and who welcome us, regardless. In that moment, our two families became one.

Other small mishaps tried to make us stumble. But they didn’t.
Earle ultimately bought the wrong cable, frustrated when the one he wanted wasn’t available. But my older son, Nat, got the slides playing on the Mother-of-the-Bride’s laptop.

The salmon from the rehearsal dinner tried to upset the tummies of some of the wedding party. But the magic of over-the-counter medication saved the day.

My Mother-of-the-Groom dress’s zipper threatened to stick, but finally relented. The lace bodice sagged once the corsage was added, but the wedding coordinator, Nancy, magically appeared with safety pins and the Matron of Honor and the Bridesmaid used them to snugly pin me in.

It was a beautiful mountain top moment when we gathered at the rear of the church. Nat ushered me to my seat, followed by my husband. I caught sight of family members and friends along the way which warmed me even more. Minutes later, the Groom, his best man and “best boy” entered the sanctuary from the front. My heart soared. The music soared. Time for the Bride.

Rebecca, looking both radiant and ethereal, entered on the arm of her father. She was poised and graceful. But as she approached the front of the church where I sat, I saw her blinking. I saw feeling and tenderness in her expression. I could feel the echo of those feelings in myself as my own tears began to gather.

The Father-of-the-Bride gave her away and the moment became more touched with grace. I could not see the Groom’s face clearly, but I could see the Bride’s. The tears were threatening to spill down my cheeks and I wondered if the same fate would befall her. The Officiate began reading the words of I Corithians: 13. The stage was set for Maximum Emotion.

Except.

Somewhere behind me a cell phone went off. And it was loud. And it had a musical ringtone.  And it was playing something by Guns and Roses. And it went on and on. And it was at my son’s wedding. And it was my Sister’s phone.

The tears lost their hold on me and I could barely keep myself from laughing. A quick glance at the Bride told me she must feel the same, for though the ceremony and the covenant were solemn and sweet, surely the pure joy of life and love infused it. Life happens, and we carry on anyway.

When the ceremony came to a close and Zack and Rebecca were declared husband and wife, and shared a sweet kiss to the delight of all, when the wedding party made their way back down the aisle and the parents of the couple followed, I found a happy knot clustered in a room off of the foyer. I apologized, laughing about my sister’s phone and the bride reassured me that it helped her. That it helped keep her together. As it did me. And I think it did for the Mother-of-the-Bride, too.

Because you can’t plan these glorious, unexpected, lives we lead. But we can celebrate the good, cherish the sacred, feast upon the joy that is offered us each and every day in surprising and miraculous ways.

Even though our emotions may karoom around like a bumper car in a carnival.

Because it’s all good. Even when it’s unexpected.

Congratulations, Rebecca and Zack. All my love to you both. 

The Bride and Groom surrounded by me and my girlfriends. 

Low Cotton

Do you know what "low cotton" means? Well, bless your heart  if you aren't from around here, I'll fill you in. It's when you are picking cotton and you come up on a patch of short, stunted cotton plants, you have to bend  way over to get  at them. You're tired, you're sweaty and your back is already hurting from carrying your giant burlap sack of what you've picked so far and now you're in low cotton. Hard times. 

Low Cotton

My mom had the wisdom to take me out to a field being picked one day when I was quite young. The farm folk, men, women and children alike, were straining to carry their impossibly heavy loads as they picked. I was shown what a cotton plant looked like and encouraged to pick a few bolls off of healthy tall plants. I remember clear as day my mom explaining that change was coming and that soon no cotton would be picked by hand. And it came to pass, yet the phrase "low cotton" is still in use by some of us old school southerners. Sometimes it explains the human condition so precisely. 

My friend, Carol Taylor, found herself in some mighty low cotton about last year this time. Though Carol's father was my childhood dentist, I didn't meet her until she became the licensed local pastor at my "home" church in Seaboard, NC. Carol was the congregation's first female pastor and she quickly won over anyone who doubted the wisdom of allowing women in the pulpit. Carol drew keen insights from scripture, was highly relate-able and genuinely loved her church family.  She followed her call and I came to know her as a mentor and friend. 

Somewhere along the way Carol got diagnosed with melanoma. Instead of hiding her light under a basket, Carol took this diagnosis and became a voice of encouragement to the online melanoma community. She was treated and life went on. But when melanoma reared its ugly head again seven or so years later, she found herself with an advanced stage 4 case. She fought the good fight. She had brain surgery and dutifully took the disabling medications prescribed by her doctors. I visited her in some of the lowest cotton of her life, at Duke Hospital. She was tired, weak, and had no interest in eating, as the treatment had stolen her ability to taste. Soon her doctors sent her home, with a life expectancy of a month. 

So, this past Monday, a year later, I hopped in my trusty Ford Flex, picked up my sister-in-faith Laura Brown in Seaboard and we headed out to Conway.  Laura called Carol to let her know there was a surprise coming and her beloved husband, Mitch, let us in the back door. 

And there she was, sitting comfortably on her couch! And the look on her face when she saw us was as joy-filled as a kid at Christmas! Laura and I looked the same! You see, Carol took that prognosis and went home. As it turned out, she went home to live. 

Laura, Carol, and me

Carol has continued to surprise and delight her family and community. At first she was confined to bed, then she learned too "scoot" from spot a to spot b, then she learned to transfer herself into a wheelchair. She regained her ability to focus and made her way back to her grateful online community. She has taken up painting. She gets out on occasion with the help of her husband and has even been able to preach a sermon! 

Carol continues to let her light shine! The laughter the three of us shared must be a foretaste of heaven because her den was filled with such joy and light.  Her wit, her joy, her presence! What a gift! And, ever the teacher, she gave me a little lesson amid all the laughter.  "Relish life." 

Carol then presented both Laura and I with a little painting each. She had created a gold cross on a bed of purple for Laura and she gave me a canvas of "helping hands." I have just the spot picked out in my kitchen to hang it; a wonderful reminder of our visit and a directive of sorts to continue listening to my own call. 

"Helping Hands" 

I'm so grateful for that visit. That magical sunny afternoon with two of the most faith-filled people I know shored up my faith. 

So the thing about low cotton? It's hard to pick. But it's still pickable. It can still grow fluffy white bolls, bursting into cloud-like clusters. There is still a yield. 

And Carol? Well, she's got one hell of a yield. 

Be devoted to one another in love.Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor,serving the Lord.  Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Romans 12:10-12

Please, pass the Sug-ah!

Saturday night, we invited our elder son's in-laws over for dinner, along with both our sons and their significant others. After dinner, Earle started a pot of coffee and served those interested. We were scattered about our dining room and kitchen chatting, when I saw my son's MIL approaching his FIL with a mostly empty, worse-for-wear paper sack of sugar. She looked at him apologetically and he looked back as if to say "what kind of establishment is this?" He made a quip, but in my mortification, it went right by me. I had failed at being a good Southern Hostess. And then - to double my shame, his wife had to serve herself cream, FROM THE CARTON.

 You best believe I went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond within 24 hours and ordered a Fiestaware sugar bowl/creamer duo in Lemongrass It won't happen again.

In the 60's and 70's, being a good hostess was imperative for a Southern Woman. As was good grooming, and tasteful attire. I did not live up to these ideals. My Home-Ec teacher, Mrs. Sylvia Lassiter,  would be so elegantly disappointed.

But the times, they are a changing. Some niceties have gone the way of orange shag carpet and good riddance. Others have disappeared from my life just because they seem - well - impractical. (But sometimes that's just me.) And some, I truly miss.

Personally:

I refuse to wear makeup, except for moisturizer and a touch of lipstick now and again. Brava to women who can paint their faces into looking ten years younger. Good for you. My one makeover left me thinking "lipstick on a pig."  Sorry, lady at the Clinique counter. you tried your best. Freckles don't take kindly to such as that.

Pantyhose: Somewhere Hanes executive fatcats are cranked back in their big leather armchairs, smoking cigars, drinking brandy by the snifterful, delighted that many women still wear their brands of pantyhose. The infernal contrivances are designed to have a short lifespan. One run and out they go. And we buy replacements in a never ending cycle. Ladies - if we can put a man on the moon, almost 50 years ago with a computer less powerful than our Fitbits, WE CAN DEVELOP PANTYHOSE THAT DON'T RUN. I wear them when I must, but Mary Frances still finds then de rigeur. You are welcome, Hanes Fatcats.

Acrylic Nails. No.  Just No.

(Disclaimer. I do use hair color. Yes, it's inauthentic. But when your husband is mistaken for your son when you are 36 and have a first grader and a head full of gray hair, you become a "dye-hard." When at 57 you think about stopping the color and your 91 year old mom thinks it's a bad idea, well, it's a bad idea.)

And look what's disappeared from our culture:

Male tech workers wardrobes of slacks, white short-sleeved shirts, neckties, and pen protectors. Gone like the wind. Replaced by t-shirts, shorts, and sandals.  I miss you, IBM of yore.

Dressing up to go shopping. My dad always went "to town" in a sports coat and tie, usually with a hat. Now, apparently, flannel pajama pants are okay. I feel well dressed up in my capri sweatpants.

Belts. Teen-aged boys, you have belt loops for a reason.

China. I didn't choose a set of china when I married. My fusty MIL was so horrified she gave me a set anyway. But she can't make me use it.

Hats. What happened to hats? I want them back! And I don't mean knit ski caps or baseball hats. I mean for men - honest to goodness Fedoras and Hombergs. And for women - things with bits of feathers or lace, or bright buttons, maybe even a veil. Church hats!

Shoulder Pads. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Going to Church. Go to church, people. God needs you as much as you need him.

Soda Fountains. The many flavors of  commercially available juice drinks do not hold a candle to a freshly made lemonade, orangeade  or limeade. Not even a match.

Homemade ice-cream.  My younger son had this recently at the parents of his bride-to-be. He loved it. I realized I'd never made it. Some of my happiest childhood memories involved homemade peach ice cream from my Dad's good friend, Bill Davis accompanied by twilight, lightening bugs, and mosquito bites.

Visiting with Neighbors on the Porch. A small town joy that's gone the way of ...small towns.

Driving politely. Driving these days is like being an extra in the Fast and the Furious.

Bridge.  This seemed like a good idea. Ladies had a night out,  AND they could win a prize.

So....I'm sure you can think of others: midi-skirts, bikes with baskets and only one gear, bookmobiles, bubble gum prizes and real toys in Cracker Jacks instead of a sticker, Chocolate Cow taffy suckers that could pull your teeth out and did...

At least I have the fond memories - but for today...

My sugar bowl and creamer came in the mail. I'm pretty happy with it.

But my son's FIL actually prefers artificial sweetener, so I'm gonna need one of these next...Sugar Packet/Artificial Sweeter Holder in Sunflower Yellow. $9.99 at Macy's for a Limited Time Only.

Mrs. Lassiter would be so proud.

Tokyo and the Electric City! (Japan Day 4)

Exiting the subway in Tokyo I felt a bit like Alice falling down a rabbit hole. I had been to big cities before: New York, Rome, London, but this was unlike any other I’d seen.  This was THE biggest city in the world., yet to my surprise, everything was sparkling clean, no trash or overstuffed waste bins, no graffiti, no crowds, no beggars. My first sight on exiting the subway stairs was a colorful flower shop. People moved to and fro: trim men dressed in suits and carrying briefcases, willowy women in flowing skirts or tidy suits. Traffic was minimal, and there were no bleating horns or fed-up drivers. The sun reflected off the tall, modern buildings surrounding us, draped in large signs in Japanese lettering. In the distance I spotted the modern shape Mode Gakuen Cocoon Tower which contrasted nicely with the hints of trees from a nearby park.

Luckily for our weary feet, we found our business class hotel within a block of the subway stop and ditched our luggage. Our small room promised a bit more space than the hotel in Yokohama and I looked forward to a multi-night stay. But first, food. Zack located an appropriate restaurant and we were off again, this time for a relaxing dinner. Indian cuisine is always a good choice for a group that includes 2 omnivores, 1 pescatarian, and 2 vegetarians but the name made this eatery a must: the Dippalace. We found a traditional menu awaiting us and enjoyed settling in for a comforting bite. (With a fork.)

Earle and I found ourselves pretty tired and Zack, Nat and Lilly continued their explorations nearby. We turned in early to prep for our first full day in the city and with good reason: Akihabara awaited.

I had read about the Akihabara area of Tokyo and knew it housed a massive business district for those seeking household electronics, cameras, mange, anime, or video games. This area became known as “electric city” after WWII in part due to surplus electronic sales, but still does the name justice.

We arrived by train the next morning and began our exploration while still in the station which opened up to a massive electronic store, Yodobashi Camera that sold – well – everything. I was mesmerized by the sophisticated selfie cameras but after being overwhelmed by floors of goods relished a visit to their toy section. Here I caught sight of Godzilla.

Once we stepped outside we found ourselves in a colorful vibrant neighborhood boasting stores featuring all the expected delights. Here we saw the largest concentration of westerners as we toured some of the offerings. We went to a giant, multi-floored, video game store named Super Potato. Every video game system an video game cartridge known to mankind could be found there. In true “the more things change, the more they stay the same, Lilly and I found ourselves waiting on the “boys” to play video games.

WAITING 

Super Potato was just one of the multi-storied monoliths offering a dizzying array of techno-goods. We usually headed to the top floor (me on an elevator, them on the stairs) and worked our way down. One store boasted floors of manga (Japanese graphic novels), another warrens of radio parts, and still another had cases of vintage toys and figurines. Everywhere large colorful signs in Japanese or English festooned the streets as well as giant images of Japanese anime characters. It was dizzying and dazzling.

In between these massive stores, if you looked hard enough, you could find small stores with wall to wall capsule machines/ Gashapon. Not gonna lie. I loved them! And I spent every 100 yen coin I could solicit from my family. I added a tiny wood Hello Kitty in a kimono, a plastic bunny with a wreath of flowers and a miniature Japanese tea service to my collection. 

And then, our tour took a surprising turn. We ducked out of the hustle and bustle of the electric city and found our way to a modest high rise and took the elevator to an Owl Café. The whole “café” thing sounds odd to our western ears but various types of cafes exist in Japan, and especially in Tokyo. There are, in addition to owl cafes, cat cafes, dog cafes, and rabbit cafes. Yes – you visit with animals while you enjoy a drink or snack. An odder twist is the existence of an Alice in Wonderland Café, a Vampire Café, or the ever popular Maid Cafes – where waitresses dress as French maids and work to serve their “masters.” (Needless to say, I suspect Earle would have preferred a Maid Café to the Owl Café, but whatever.)

The Owl Café exceeded my expectations. Basically less food (drink vending machines) but many, many more owls than expected. For a modest fee, you stepped through an antiseptic “shoe bath” and entered a smallish room filled with a labyrinth of walkways and seats where you could see a great variety of owls, up close and personal. Most were hand tame. (Others clearly marked to protect the unwary guest.) Though their movement was restricted, they were clean, inquisitive (whooooo?) and looked well kept. Some dozed off, bored with the whole setup and a few looked longingly out the window. One unusual fellow was free to fly about. It was a memorable visit and one of my favorite stops.

Once we exited, Zack had one more trick up his sleeve for us. I dutifully trailed along, a little concerned about the overcast sky and the sprinkles. We ducked under what looked like a train line overpass, I thought to get out of the rain, but instead found a conclave of unique shops each featuring different type of artisanal goods. One could buy leather goods, shoes, handmade books, backpacks, clothes, metal works, woodcraft, screen printed fabrics…even now, weeks later, remembering the varieties of these jewel box shops is a bit mindboggling. It was a shopper’s paradise! And a bit of a “whats good for the goose is good for the gander” experience as Lilly and I shopped to our hearts content while the guys grew a bit tired of waiting. (So tired in fact, that they circled back around to hit another video game business.) Lilly and I had the absolute luxury of visiting as many of these shops as we liked – admiring the many unusual and carefully crafted products – often helped by the crafter themselves. I bought a lovely carved wooden owl pin for my mom as well as two tiny handmade books and several tenuguis, multipurpose pieces of fabric – a traditional Japanese gift- used for everything from wearing as a headscarf to wrapping gifts. We had great fun – and shopped until the stores closed in the late afternoon.

When we regrouped, we took the train to another part of the city, traipsed through a neighborhood that somehow was all uphill (both ways) and ended up at Café-Creperie Le Bretagne. This tiny restaurant was tucked in an out-of-the-way corner and featured out-of-this world crepes – especially dessert crepes! I didn’t anticipate crepes in Japan – but this was a relaxing, tasty stop that suited all our palates and helped us wind down from a busy day.

TOMORROW: ON TO HAKONE and BLACK EGGS

Sushi Go-Round and Standing Out in the Crowd (Japan Days 2-3)

Sushi Go-Round and Standing Out in the Crowd

After our “march or die” tour of Yokohama, and time back at our hotel  to ice my knee, Zack took us to a “sushi-go-round” for dinner.

Also known as a sushi train or conveyor belt sushi, dishes traverse the restaurant from a central preparation area on something similar to a small airport baggage carousel. There is (or was) a small restaurant of this type on Franklin Street, so I had been exposed to this idea on a smaller scale. But in typical Japanese fashion, this restaurant exceeded expectations.

In general, I was intrigued by the use of technology, including the electronic map of unoccupied toilets in the Tokyo Train Station. This time, the technology was in the small ordering interface on each table. The small computer screen boasted a multiscreen menu and was available in Japanese or (a somewhat questionable) translation into English. Orders were placed and shortly thereafter you were notified when your dish was on its way on the conveyer belt, tagged with your table number. There were other dishes available as well, untagged and available if you had a hankering.

It was a great way to sample a variety of dishes. I expanded my appreciation for nigiri (raw fish sushi) and sampled eel for the first time. Nat was bold enough to try pickled eggplant, but his response was not unlike Mary Frances’ watermelon rind pickle reaction at our favorite BBQ joint. It was fun and easy to share dishes. Each table was equipped with hot water and green tea.  When we signaled the waitress that we were finished, she brought out a ruler of sorts and measured the stacks of empty dishes we had generated and charged us accordingly. We cleared a respectable number of plates!

Making Green Tea 

Sushi Go-Round

Pickled Eggplant

Damage Count 

Our final morning in Yokohama, after breakfast at MacDonald’s, we visited Chinatown, the largest in Japan. It was within easy walking distance of our hotel. One moment you are on a typical, calm, Japanese street and suddenly you find yourself in an explosion of color, noise, and movement! Restaurants stretched in a seemingly endless march fronted by hawkers imploring you to eat within. The air was filled with the scents of simmering dumplings, roasted chestnuts, and sizzling dishes. Colorful “fake” food adorned each entrance. In between the restaurants were scads of shops with Chinese gifts – including lots of pandas. The entrance to one store was a panda’s open mouth!

Sidewalks were filled with groups of high school aged students dressed in traditional school uniforms of tartan and navy. They bore the universal look of teenagers happy to be out of the classroom. And the preschoolers! Adorable! Classes were clustered around their teachers, each class wearing matching caps. And universally, the students were well-behaved and orderly.

One group of teenage girls caught sight of our little party, winding single file through the crowds. Lilly had dropped back to keep me company near the end of our queue and she spotted them first, eyeballing Earle and the boys ahead of us, who stood out in the crowd, heads above everyone else. One pair of girls giggled behind their raised hands obviously watching them. One of them then caught our eye, smiled widely, waved, and shyly called out “Hello!” We were indeed a rarity in Yokohama; I saw only 4 other westerners in the 48 hours we spent there!

Entrance to Chinatown

Fortune Telling

School girls

Pandas!

THE CUTENESS! 

`

We also stopped by a small temple that enshrines deity Kwan Tai who was a general in an ancient Chinese army around 200 AD.  He is worshiped for his military agility and virtues, including integrity and loyalty. It was surprising to find this small, quiet temple in the heart of Chinatown. Its rich golds, reds, and guardian lions (foo dogs to westerners) were a haven of serenity the midst of business, barkers, and crowds.

Soon we found ourselves retracing our steps and slipping out of Chinatown, as magically as we entered. We collected our suitcases, which were stashed in Zack’s apartment, and began our journey to Tokyo.