Japan Where I Live
The Japan where I live is a country of many moods, many faces and many seasons. From the forest-covered mountains to the gray-stone beaches, from the sparsely populated rural areas to the densely packed cities, from the relaxed charm of a hot spring bath in Hakone to the rush-hour crush of a Tokyo train, there is always a sense of continuity, a unique awareness of the underlying "Japaneseness" of the place, the people and the event.
In summer, the children light fireworks in the park near my house, running in circles with sparklers streaming trails of fireflies from their hands. Out on the street, the ladies young and old wear yukata to some event, the young in brightly colored yukata tied with complicated sashes - called obi - are on their way to watch fireworks on the beach with their boyfriends. The older ladies, in more subdued traditional yukata wander in chatty groups to the summer circle dance festivals, called bon odori. Their husbands, thinking ahead to free beer and shochu, amble behind bow-leggedly in pajama-like jinbei or loose-fitting shorts and old white tank tops, swatting ever-present mosquitoes in the moist heat of the night.
Through August, the bon odori and fireworks continue, supplemented by the occasional matsuri, or festival, where stalwarts clad in happi coats tote portable shrines called mikoshi through the streets of their neighborhood. The revelers pause every few blocks to drink shochu before hoisting the ornate, holy palanquin once more and marching, chanting, up the street, shaking the mikoshi to demonstrate the awesome power of the Shinto deity enshrined within.
And all the while, the cicadas chirp and whir in the background, playing a summer song for the surfers with their wetsuits peeled down to their waists, sitting along the seawall drinking beer and speaking in voices too loud for their own ears, waiting for the surf to rise, which it so rarely does in these parts. In the houses and restaurants, people have altered their diets to compensate for the heat, eating light foods like raw fish (sashimi) and grilled eel (unagi).
In autumn, the rains come, and the children twirl their umbrellas and stomp in the rain puddles on their way home from school. Houses, which unanimously lack insulation or central air conditioning, have cooled off pleasantly and the open windows let in the breeze and out the smell of grilled fish.
The leaves on the trees are shifting into their red and orange costumes, ready to take their yearly plunge earthward but not quite yet having summoned up the pluck to let go. Some children, too, have shifted uniforms as they move from elementary school to junior high, or from junior high to high school, proudly displaying the pins denoting their newly acquired seniority in this highly structured, rank-conscious society.
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