A Long Shot - Pt.2
I woke up the next morning in time to shower and be down in the lobby by the 10:00 check out. The man from the previous day wasn’t there; instead a cheerful middle-aged woman sang out a rapturous “Good morning!” from behind the front counter. I placed my key in front of her. “Thank you very much, and have a nice day!” the woman cooed. In Japan you don’t take your room key with you when you leave the hotel. The desk clerk keeps it and then gives it back to you when you return. It’s actually a pretty genius system. There’s not much that’s easier to misplace than a card or key that doesn’t belong to something you own.
“Oh, no,” I said, “Actually, I’d like to check out.”
“Ah, okay,” she said. I told her my name. She leafed through some papers and then smiled and said, “Alright, it’s all set. Thanks very much.”
“So, it’s 4,500 yen?” I asked, taking out my wallet.
“No, no,” she said with a surprised look. “We already received the money. You’re all set.”
“Really?” I asked. I tried to recall whether or not I’d actually paid the day before. I didn’t think that I had.
“Yes indeed.” The woman glanced back over some papers and then nodded affirmatively.
“Oh…” I said. I remembered keeping the 10,000 yen note that I’d originally taken out to pay with the previous night. But then, the man had later given me 500 yen. Maybe I did pay, I thought. But I had no receipt or paperwork of any kind from the hostel. “You’re sure I’m all paid up?” I asked again.
“Yes, sir!” the woman chirped. “Thank you very much, and we hope that you’ll use our hostel again if you come back to Osaka.”
“Ah, uh… okay…” I stammered. “Well, yeah, uh… thank you, too.” I slowly walked out the door and into the street. I still couldn’t remember if I’d actually paid or not. In any case, there was no sense fighting the woman about it if she was so certain. I still wonder if maybe the man had been so flustered that he’d accidentally written down somewhere that I’d paid. Or maybe in my exhausted stupor I actually did pay. But anyhow, they had my credit card number and contact information. I shrugged it off and went on my way.
I spent the morning at a café, drinking coffee, reading, and planning my day. For the entire time I was there two old women to my left aimed blatant stares at me, and a middle aged man eyed me suspiciously from behind the shield of his newspaper. Even in a city as big as Osaka where I’d been continually running into other foreigners, I was still a spectacle. Or maybe they were just waiting for my head to explode as I pored over my maps and notes. I read somewhere, and have heard from more than a few students, that the belief is still strong in Japan that Japanese, and kanji in particular, is simply too difficult for foreign brains to comprehend. Apparently that belief comes from the fact that historically so few foreigners have ever learned Japanese. As a result, the idea has taken hold that the language is just too complicated for non-Japanese to acquire. It apparently has occurred to no one that Japanese is useless once you venture off the island.
My plan for the day was to take a local train from downtown Osaka to a little town called Sakai. Whenever I ask my students or friends about Sakai, about 90 percent of the responses I receive are blank stares. It’s understandable, though. Sakai isn’t small, but it is rather unassuming. It’s an old city, but doesn’t have any particularly popular tourist spots, culinary specialties, or major historical significance – the trifecta of Japanese tourist-draw. Its one claim to fame, however, does happen to have immense significance to me, though not so much to otherwise ordinary human beings.
From medieval times Sakai was known for its production of samurai swords. These days swords aren’t quite as fashionable (or legal) as they were in the past, so Sakai blade smiths are now renowned for producing Japan’s premier kitchen knives. In fact, as the train pulled into the Sakai station, the conductor even said, “Now arriving at Sakai, knife-making city,” or something along those lines. I think the amount of garbled train-announcement mess you can decode is a definitive indicator of your fluency level, no matter what language or country. On the train I can usually just catch place names, but like a feline around catnip, I have an inordinate ability to detect words related to knives and cooking.
I actually didn’t get off initially at Sakai station. I started one station north of it. According to my research there were two knife shops in that area. I figured that I could then work my way south toward the main drag where the majority of other shops were located.
Without any exaggeration I can say that the Shichi-do station where I hopped off the train was Podunk with a capital P. But it was Podunk in a charming way. It was a bright, sunny day, and there were old ladies out grocery shopping together, neighbors talking to one another about the weather – real old-timey stuff. Additionally, everything was small. I don’t mean this is a demeaning or offensive way, but I’ve found that in Japan, the older and less Westernized a place is, the smaller things are. Chairs are smaller, doorways are smaller, and buildings in general are smaller. Soon after I left the station I encountered a quaint roadside takoyaki stand. While the customers in front of me came and went without difficulty, I literally couldn’t stand up straight when I went up to the window to order. As I ducked down under the awning, the woman running the stand said, “Oh my! Watch your head!”
All of the people I met were very kind, but I could tell by their unrestrained stares that they weren’t used to seeing foreigners. Walking down the narrow streets between old wooden houses and shops, I felt kind of like a spaceman. More than a few children stopped dead in their tracks to stare as I walked by. “Gaijin,” they whispered, “Look, it’s a foreigner.” But in a sense it was the same for me, as well. I was likely just as wide-eyed as I took in the old buildings, street signs, and gawking bystanders.
The first shop I visited appeared to be a storefront, workshop, and house all in one. Kind of a live-in knifery. In other words: awesome. When I entered, the man who greeted me was unexpectedly tall, jovial, and clearly fond of his job. He was probably in his 50s, and was wrapped in a blue, traditional-Japanese looking tunic that was tied at the waist with a cloth belt. He grinned unceasingly and had a bit of a lisp that caused his ‘S’s to get caught up at the sides of his mouth.
There were three distinct sections and knife displays in the shop. One was Western style knifes, and the other two were Japanese style. “Do you make any of these knives here?” I asked, gazing about the room. I actually didn’t know this is at the time, but later learned that the man I was speaking with was the proprietor of Mizuno Tanrenjo, a really reputable name as far as knife makers go, dating back to 1872. In fact, I’m pretty familiar with their work, but didn’t recognize the Chinese characters of the name written above the door.
“Oh yes,” the man said, his eyes gleaming, “These are ours.” He swept his arm in an arc before the third case, just behind the sales counter. “We make them just back there.” He jabbed his thumb at a curtained doorway that led, I suppose, into the workshop. “What kind of knife are you interested in?”
“I’m not really sure,” I said. “I’m just kind of looking around.” I explained that I really liked Japanese food and cutlery, and that I’d come to Sakai to see some of the knives I’d heard so much about.
“That’s great,” the man said. “Of course I’m biased, but I really think Sakai knives are the best in the world.” I continued looking around, trying to see if there might be something good to add to my collection. “Where are you from?” the man asked. I told him Ohio, in America. “Ah, I see.” His eyes made no sign of comprehension concerning Ohio. I’ve never actually met anybody in Japan who could place Ohio. Sometimes people fake interest or understanding. “Oh yeah, Ohio… that’s on the west cost, right?” Or, “Ah! Ohio. Good potatoes, right?” Then I have to explain that Ohio and Idaho are different. Which usually leads to one more question: “What’s famous in Ohio?” To which I answer: “Um… soy beans? Skyline chili?”
“American, eh? So you speak English?” the man asked. I nodded. “Here, let me go get my daughter. She speaks English and can help you better than I can.” The man dashed back into the workshop. I could hear him calling to someone. “Sorry, wait just a moment!” the voice called to me through the workshop curtains.
A few moments later a girl about my age came out and stood meekly behind the counter, looking as though she wanted to be invisible. I could tell that she wasn’t sure whether to begin in Japanese or English.
“Good afternoon,” I said in Japanese. “You know English?” She nodded.
“Yes,” she said in English, “A little bit.”
“Oh, cool,” I said, speaking slowly and trying to track how much she understood. “Where did you study?” She said she’d just studied a bit in high school and university, like everybody else in Japan. Her pronunciation was quite good, but nothing resembling a conversation materialized. Despite my bumbling, catastrophe of Japanese grammar we ended up being better off using her native language. Initially I was worried that she might be offended if I gave up on her English, but on the contrary she seemed relieved when I stopped using it.
Now that we’d switched back to Japanese, her English exam was over, and I’d complimented her masterful pronunciation of the single English sentence she uttered, she seemed much less terrified; less on the verge of barricading herself into one of the nearby cabinets. In fact, she stepped out from behind the counter and began asking me questions.
“Where are you from? How long have you been here? What do you do? Are you a chef?” I answered each, pausing with the measure embarrassment I’ve learned to show when admitting that, though I often spend exorbitant amounts of money on kitchen knives, that I am, in fact, an English teacher. She giggled at the last bit.
“So what do you do?” I asked. “Are you still a student? Have you traveled abroad?”
“No,” she said shyly, “I’m working here, apprenticing to take over my father’s business.”
“Wow,” I said, “That’s terrific.” There was a slight pause in which her eyes fell meekly to the floor as she prodded the tile with the tip of her shoe. “Well, uh … which of these are made here?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Her eyes brightened.
“Oh, all these over here.” She skipped over to the cabinet behind the counter. “Would you like to see any?” Before I could answer she slid open the glass of the display case. “This one is pretty popular. It’s a good knife, and not too expensive.” With the overly cautious, nearly trembling hand of one who isn’t used to handling big, potentially lethal objects, she removed a plain-looking santoku kitchen knife. She handed it to me with a smile.
“Hmm… very nice,” I said, hefting it in my hand. A santoku is a kind of all-purpose kitchen knife – one that’s adequate for doing anything from mincing onions to slicing up hunks of meat, but not especially great at any one of those duties. As a maniac with 10 knives already in my arsenal, my eyes were more on the specialized blades. I set the knife on the counter. “And, how about that usuba,” I said, and eyeballing it, chose one of the set knife lengths that it seemed closest to, “The 210 millimeter one.” Her constitution wavered as she gazed at the scores of different knives. Her hand began moving toward one.
“Actually, not that one. The Kansai-style one,” I said. She gave me a blank stare. “Oh, the one with the curved tip.” In Kansai, the western region of Japan (in which Osaka is located) knives often have curved, pointed tips. In Kanto, the east, and also the home of the Emperor, knives have a flat tip. While slightly less functional than their western counterparts, these knives were favored in Kanto so that chefs, if ever called upon to cook for the emperor, would not menace him with pointy knives.
The girl carefully removed the knife from the cabinet and handed it to me with, once again, the lost, faintly terrified pet hamster-glaze over her eyes. “Ah, this is a great knife!” I exclaimed, trying to reassure her. “I came to Sakai to see good knives, and I’m sure glad I found this place.” She seemed to liven up a bit.
“How long will you be in Sakai?” she asked.
“Just for today. I’m heading back to Shizuoka tonight.”
“Ooh, Shizuoka,” she sighed. “Really good eel, right?”
“Oh yes, the best,” I said, though my experience with Shizuoka eel is limited to a single dining experience.
Once again sure of her footing, the girl began firing more questions at me. “Do you like Japan? Can you eat Japanese food? What’s America like? Is it dangerous? Do you really wear shoes indoors?”
At this point, having heard our conversation continually moving away from cutlery and toward more human matters, the girl’s father burst out through the curtained doorway. He lasered a glare first at me, and then at his daughter. Once satisfied that no breach of security or honor had occurred, his face snapped back into the big friendly grin.
“Ah!” he boomed, “you’re interested in an usuba. Why didn’t you say so earlier? Great knife, really,” he prattled on. Again hefting the knife in my hand, I asked whether it was made of white or blue steel (that’s actually just a way to classify of the grade of steel, not the color). The man’s eyes popped open in surprise.
“You really know something, now don’t you?” He reeled back as he spoke. “That’s great. Well, this one is blue steel. Very high grade, but a little expensive.” I raised my eyebrows. “Hmm… this one is 45,000 yen, I believe.” That’s close to $500. If you’ve followed my blog for long, you know that, pathetically, I have actually spent that much on a similar knife before. But that was a good learning experience, and I wasn’t looking to repeat the investment.
“Ah, I see,” I said. “I thought that might be the case. The knives you have here are really superb.” I hoped to reenter the man’s good graces. It seemed to work.
“They’re certainly not shabby, if I do say so myself,” he said, winking proudly and tucking both thumbs under his tunic belt. Then, gazing about the shop, he said, “Say, by the way, have you been to Nara?” I said that I hadn’t, but that recently I’d visited Kyoto, the neighboring city. “Is that so? Well, then maybe you know Houryuji temple.” I blinked, searching the jumbled catacombs of my Japanese vocabulary for temple names, and hoping that during that time he’d follow up with some more helpful information. He got the hint.
“Here, it’s this place.” He drew a pamphlet from some handy, invisible stash, and tapped the image of a big, ancient, greenish-looking temple. “See these Mayokegamas (a kind of ceremonial sickle), the emperor asked me to make them to decorate the temple.” And sure enough, I could just make out the glint of metal at the end of two faint sticks protruding from a spiraling column atop the temple. The gleam in his eye and lisp-produced spittle at the corners of his mouth show me beyond the shadow of a doubt that this was one of the crowning achievements of his life. I made the best sounds of awe and admiration that I could muster.
“Go on, show it to him,” the man said, nodding to his daughter. She motioned for me to follow her to a corner of the shop. There, leaning between the end of the counter and a low display case was a sickle just like the one’s he’d shown me in the photo. It was about three feet in length, with a blade about the size of a dinner plate, though considerably more ominous. A block of fine Japanese text covered the greater part of the polished silvery blade. At the time I didn’t have the sense to ask what it said, though I probably wouldn’t have gotten an answer I would understand even if I had. The daughter heaved the sickle, carried it a few steps, and then set it with a thud on the ground in front of me.
“Go head, hold it.” The delight in her voice almost matched her father’s. I grasped it around the thick wooden handle and lifted it into the air.
“Wow… heavy…” I said, not really sure what to do with the thing. What’s the protocol for admiring a piece of ceremonial weaponry? Do I wield it? Pray to it? Hand the man my cell phone and ask him to take a picture of me with it while giving a meager peace sign? Actually, the latter would probably have given him a coronary of satisfaction.
I set the sickle back in its place against the counter. “That’s really something,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks very much,” the man said. “It’s a real honor for us.”
“Well, umm…” I stammered, looking around. While everything they’d showed me had been exceptionally well-crafted and of the highest quality, nothing had really stuck out. I couldn’t justify the high cost simply to duplicate something I already had with an item from a new city. “Thank you very much for your time and all the great information,” I said, giving several quick bows. This, I’ve learned, is the most effective way to disentangle oneself from nearly any situation in Japan. The man and his daughter returned the bows and in turn thanked me as well.
“I’m planning to spend the afternoon exploring Sakai, but I’ll try to come back toward evening if I can.” Although I didn’t have any particularly strong impulse to buy a knife there, I certainly wouldn’t have minded getting a less expensive, smaller knife there if nothing else turned up.
“Please do!” the man said. “Here, here’s my card.” He handed me his business card, customarily holding it between the thumb and index finger of both hands and extending both arms with a bow. I received it in the same manner, which I’ve found simply tickles most folks who aren’t expecting foreigners to know any Japanese manners. “You can phone us any time,” he called after me as I slid open the door. “And please see us again if you come back to Sakai in the future!”
“I sure will,” I said, again bowing in the doorway. “Thanks again for everything.” The father and daughter both smiled deliriously and waved as I stepped out into the street. I returned their farewell with one big wave and, scrounging for the map in my pocket, marched on to my next destination.