by Sarah Kuhn
“Sorry,” I blurt out. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and the flight was really long and I was starting to feel like I was going to, I don’t know, eat my suitcase or something, so I stopped to get a snack and … sorry.” I hastily stuff the wrapper into my coat pocket. I’m wearing a coat I inherited from my paternal grandmother. It’s light wool with a bright red-and-blue check pattern and was originally cut in a flowing style that overwhelmed my shrimpy frame. I reconstructed it to fit me better—giving it darts at the waist for a more tailored silhouette and adding little fake fur cuffs and a collar for maximum whimsy. It was my first legit Kimi Original. The coat is a bit too warm for spring in the States or Japan, but wearing it while traveling always makes me feel sophisticated and jet-setting. Grandma seems to be studying the coat—or maybe she’s just studying me?—but her expression gives away nothing and I find myself shifting uncomfortably.
“Snacking is good for maintaining the healthy biorhythm,” my grandfather says, smiling at me. “I change what is in my snack drawer every month—keeps life interesting, ne?” He holds out his hand.
“Oh …” I say, fishing around in my pocket. I pull out the croquette wrapper and hand it to him. He gives me a little nod and tucks it into his own jacket pocket and I feel a stab of warmth—he took the wrapper from me just to soothe my embarrassment.
“Let’s go home so you can rest before dinner,” my grandfather says, reaching for my suitcase. “I know that flight is long.”
“Thank you,” I say, passing the suitcase to him and giving him a tentative smile. “I definitely need to, um, freshen up a little. I’ve been getting some weird stares—I must have plane hair.”
“It is more likely because you were eating while walking,” my grandmother says. She’s still studying me in a way I can’t quite crack. “That is seen as impolite here.”
“Mostly just to old folks like us,” my grandfather says, gesturing for us to follow as he pulls my suitcase along behind him. “You will likely want to consult some of the young people around here, Kimiko-chan, on what is and is not considered ‘impolite’ these days.”
“ ‘Young people’ are the last people you should consult about being polite,” my grandmother grumbles, shaking her head.
My grandfather turns and winks at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. I feel another stab of warmth so visceral, I nearly tear up. I already feel so lost. And clearly I’m making cultural faux pas all over the place—from getting a call on the train to walking and eating to trying to get all huggy—that highlight the fact that I came here completely unprepared. I wish I’d had more time to research … well. Everything. But especially customs and etiquette and stuff that would help me feel less out of place. It strikes me how discombobulating it is to be in a place where so many of the faces look like mine, but where I clearly don’t belong.
My grandfather’s gentle humor soothes me, though, makes me feel like maybe things will be okay. (Also, it must be said that the way he teases my grandmother reminds me a bit of my dad teasing my mom.)
I study my grandparents as we exit the station onto the street. My grandfather’s twinkly manner is enhanced by his tufty white hair and his rumpled, mismatched outfit—polo shirt a few sizes too big, wrinkled khaki jacket, neatly tied sneakers. I can totally picture him at the lunch counter at Suehiro, a no-frills Japanese comfort food place in LA’s Little Tokyo that attracts a big cross-section of local Aunties and Uncles. Atsuko, Bex, and I sometimes eat there on weekends. One time, I thought an Auntie with particularly notable side-eye technique was judging me for taking a picture of my food. But then her food came, and she whipped out an actual camera—like, not a phone—to snap a pic, so maybe she was merely judging my not-very-impressive photography skills.
In contrast to my grandfather, I can’t get a read on Grandma. Except that she still seems to be shooting me deep, probing looks, like she’s trying to figure something out. She’s not what I expected, though. I had drawn up a vivid image of a stern, faded woman with a steel-gray hair bun and a penchant for muted floral prints. Someone who, I guess, had certain elements of Mom’s demeanor, but was also clearly opposed to the vivid, artsy way she lives her life. But I don’t think that’s Grandma. Her hair is short and snow white and she has sweeping bangs that fall over her forehead. She’s wearing all black—an interesting, blouse-like garment with asymmetrical ruffles layered along the front and a long skirt.
“Obaasan,” I blurt out, and she cocks her head at me. “I like your outfit.”
I feel instantly dorky. I’m talking to my grandmother, not some fellow fashionista I chatted up at my thrift store job and then hearted on Instagram.
She studies me for a few moments more in that deeply uncomfortable way, her brow furrowed.
“This outfit, not so good,” she finally says, waving a dismissive hand at her ensemble. “The skirt is old and frayed at the bottom.”
With that, she sweeps toward the station’s exit. I follow along, my sense of dorky out-of-placeness growing. And I realize I don’t have to choose between having an existential crisis and making bad decisions—because I’m definitely really good at accomplishing both of those things at the same time.
Dinner is a fairly uneventful affair. Grandma and Grandpa cook together and then we all sit on tatami mats around a low table, eating fish and rice and miso soup. The flavors are gentle and familiar, and I allow my exhausted brain to luxuriate in their soothing qualities. I keep apologizing for my zonked-out state, but Grandpa and Grandma don’t seem to mind. In fact, they seem comfortable in companionable silence, which is refreshing since I can’t, for the life of me, think of anything smart to say. It’s weird, I have this sudden desire to impress them. Maybe I want to show them that Mom’s life turned out okay. That I turned out okay—since I am the result of all the decisions she made that they disapproved of so hard.
I keep wanting to ask Grandma about her cool blouse thing from earlier. But I feel shy even bringing it up since she dismissed my compliment so quickly. And anyway, she seems uncomfortable looking at me—whenever I try to catch her eye, she finds something else to look at.
Grandpa tries to ask a few questions about Mom, which makes Grandma stiffen and stare down at her bowl extra hard. So I answer in quick, clipped sentences, not giving much away. I realize I also need to divert them around the subject of my future, which seemed pretty set up until recently. But now … I don’t know.
That’s what you’re here to figure out, remember? a little voice in the back of my head pipes up. Battle Kimi. Get your self-discovery quest on, girl. Rawr!
Ugh, I’m too tired to rawr.
Grandpa also enthusiastically shows me some tourist spots I should most definitely visit while I’m here, pointing them out in a clearly brand-new guidebook.
“Your grandmother and I have our boring old-people routines during the day,” he says, his eyes sparkling again with that irresistible mischief. “I suggest you find fun young-people things to do, then come home for dinner and tell us all about your adventures.” He taps a spot on one of the guidebook maps. “Maybe start with Philosopher’s Path in Kyoto. Good for clearing the mind of a tired traveler, ne?”
Hmm. That does sound like the right place to start a quest of self-discovery.
Later, I collapse onto the futon in the guest room and pull the covers tightly around me, wrapping myself up until only my eyes are peeking out. My dad calls this “burrito-ing.” It makes me feel secure and protected, although sometimes rolling over is a chore. I attempt to roll my whole burrito self over anyway, squishing into a corner of the bed. As I roll, though, I feel something weird—a lump right in the middle of the mattress. I disentangle myself from my burrito and feel around on the sheets, trying to locate this mysterious foreign object. My hand lands on something fuzzy—a stuffed animal of some kind? I pick it up and scrabble around for my phone on the nightstand. I flick on the flashlight app and hold the fuzzy thing up to my face. It is a stuffed animal—a tiny black and white pi
g with both eyes missing and a front foot that’s been chewed within an inch of its life.
My heart stops beating for a moment. I know this pig—I’ve heard about this pig. It’s Mom’s favorite childhood stuffed animal, Meiko. She’s told me the story a million times, how she couldn’t take very much with her when she came to the States for school, and her parents kept telling her, “Don’t worry, Meiko will be here when you get back.” She assumed they’d eventually just gotten rid of Meiko, along with all the other things she was clearly never coming back for.
I realize then that I’m sleeping in my mother’s childhood bedroom. And that Grandma and Grandpa have actually kept Meiko around all these years.
I cuddle the pig to my chest and burrito back up, tears pricking my eyeballs. I’m not sure what I’m crying for. Maybe for the years of misunderstandings between people who are supposed to love each other more than anything—and the fact that I’m carrying on that fine tradition by hurting my mother so much, she can’t even look at me.
The train to Kyoto is as packed as it was yesterday, but at least I don’t have to maneuver my bulky suitcase. And I’ve triple-checked my phone—it’s on silent. I won’t be answering any rogue Skype calls.
Apparently I still need to find a way to bungle something up, though, so I get distracted and lost trying to follow the cool girl in the tiered skirt and end up on that random bench next to the food market, staring at my blank sketchbook and thinking about how I’ve just ruined everything with this ill-advised trip around the world.
Come on, Kimi. Think about something inspirational.
My mind wanders to that girl’s tiered skirt again, and before I know it, I’m brushing my pencil over the page, drawing a longer version. I end up drawing dramatic, flowing tiers everywhere, until my creation takes up the whole page. I look up, gnawing on my lower lip, and see those beautiful cherry blossoms overhead, the sun falling on them so they look like they’re sprinkled with tiny bits of light.
Hmm, there’s an idea …
I add soft texture to my tiered skirt, making it look like it’s made of cherry blossoms. Then I flip to another page and start experimenting with drawing a dress that mimics the flow of the branch above me, giving the texture that same fluffy cherry blossom feel.
“Mochi, mochi!”
I look up and see a cute guy in an unwieldy puffy foam costume bobbing around a few feet from me.
What in the world? Does this market have some kind of … mascot?
The costume consists of a blobby pink sphere with holes cut out for the guy’s arms, legs, and head. It has a mushy look to it, like it’s been constructed out of a giant marshmallow. It’s topped off with a matching pink hat affixed with comically large googly eyes that bounce around as he dances.
“Irasshaimase!” he says to some tourists passing by, raising his arms above his head and swaying his hips side to side. “Mochi, mochi!”
Oh. He’s trying to get people over to a food stall selling mochi. He’s supposed to be a giant piece of mochi.
“Why would mochi have googly eyes?” I murmur to myself, sketching a necklace made of round, mochi-like shapes on top of my cherry blossom dress. “Is it alive? Is it sentient? Have I been eating sentient mochi beings all these years and I didn’t even know it?!” I make the necklace even bigger, rounder, more exaggerated.
I look up again and the guy is really getting into his dance, doing bouncy, intricate footwork and flashing major jazz hands.
“Mochiiiiiiiii!” he sings out, like it’s the chorus of a Broadway showstopper.
I burst into giggles. I can’t help it. The whole thing is so ridiculous.
He whips around, distracted from his dance by my giggle (I’ve always had a loud, explosive giggle, I can’t help it), then stumbles backward and falls to the ground. He rolls around for a moment, arms flailing, the foamy roundness of his costume making it even more difficult for him to get back up. He looks like a puppy who hasn’t figured out how to use all of its limbs yet.
“Sorry!” I blurt out. I jump up from my seat, shoving my sketchbook and pens in my bag, and dash over to him—and now I’m giggling harder. “Sorry,” I say again, extending a hand to help him up. I’m not sure if I’m apologizing for distracting him or laughing at him. Maybe both. “Oh, and … sorry, I don’t know much Japanese. Which maybe means you don’t understand a single word I’m saying.”
“I know English,” he says, giving me a thoroughly irritated look as he takes my hand. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“I …”
I’m suddenly at a loss for words. Because as I’m helping him up, as I’m taking in his dark eyes flashing at me with irritation, I realize three things:
1. This is the first time I’ve laughed—or even smiled—since I got to Japan.
2. He is very handsome.
3. Instead of just fantasizing about it … I actually did something! I made it real! I ran over here and helped him and now I’m talking to him and—
Wait. What have I just done?!
“Why are you laughing at me?” the cute boy repeats.
He’s back on his feet now, but I’m still clasping his hand for some reason. And staring, let’s not forget the staring. He’s taller than me (I mean, most people are taller than me) and his dark eyes flash with a certain kind of intensity that pulls me right in and makes me want to stare at him more. His shaggy black hair is kind of squashed under that ridiculous googly-eyed hat, and his face is so serious, in direct contrast to his goofy costume. That contrast makes me want to giggle again, but I manage to stifle the laugh burbling up in my chest.
“Um, sorry, I’m Kimi,” I say, pumping his hand up and down and then finally, reluctantly releasing it. I give a little bow and he does the same. “I’m visiting from America. Which doesn’t actually answer your question. It’s, uh … I just …” I clamp my mouth shut and sternly tell myself not to giggle. “Your dance was … funny. In a good way. I’ve never seen such a coordinated dessert before. Do all the vendors here have mascots?” I gesture around the market.
“No,” he says. His stance has relaxed a bit and now he looks like he’s sizing me up. I believe I detect a sliver of amusement creeping into his expression. “I suggested to my ojisan, my uncle—he owns the mochi stand over there”—he gestures to a stall in the corner of the market—“that he should try putting a more personal stamp on things. A unique spin, to really bring the customers in. Yuru-kyara—you know, mascots—are so popular in Japan they have their own festivals. But this market has not yet taken advantage, in my opinion. I thought Ojisan’s mochi stand could be the first.”
“Ah, yes,” I say, thinking of colorful photos I’ve seen online of gigantic, googly-eyed baby chicks rubbing elbows with rosy-cheeked, anthropomorphized tomatoes. “So for max kawaii, you volunteered to dress up as a giant mochi?” I cock an eyebrow.
“Not volunteered,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “I suggested the costume—for someone to wear—and then Ojisan said, ‘Oh, so this is how you want to help me out this year on your spring vacation? I accept.’ One of my sisters made the costume.”
“And the, uh, routine?” I say, stuffing down another giggle.
“The routine,” he says, “is entirely my creation.”
“It’s definitely an attention-getter,” I say. “You totally accomplished the whole unique spin thing. And I do love the costume—very eye-catching, and well made. Of course, if I were designing it, I’d probably make a few changes …”
“Such as?” He crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a challenging look. Only the costume is so bulky and squishy, he can’t quite cross his arms properly, and has to keep shifting around. Which takes away from any level of gravitas he might be hoping to project.
“Well …” I reach into my bag and pull out my sketchbook and one of my pens. I flip to a blank page and rough out a few lines. “I’d probably lose the hat. If you’re going to give your mochi a face—which, by the way, raises its own
set of possibly disturbing questions—I’d put it on the actual body of the costume. Otherwise, it’s like, why are the eyeballs on top? And where does your human face come into this? Did the mochi eat you? Are we dealing with human-eating mochi here? I’d also use material that would give the body less of a rigid spherical shape—something lighter that moves with you when you’re doing your dance. So you won’t fall down. Even if some annoying American distracts you with her way-too-loud laugh.” I’ve gotten more and more absorbed in my sketch as I talk, and I realize suddenly that I’ve started to draw this cute boy’s face—flashing eyes, shaggy hair, and the ghost of a dimple that showed up briefly when he gave me that half smile—
“Um, anyway.” My face flushes and I snap the sketchbook shut. “You get the idea.”
Now he gives me a full smile and that dimple shows up for real. My flush deepens. Argh.
“Kimi from America,” he says. “I’m Akira. From Japan.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “Uh, Nakamura. Is my actual last name.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Okamoto.”
“Okamoto-san,” I say, giving another little bow.
“Akira is fine,” he says, dimpling again.
“Sorry again for the, uh, distraction. I really need to work on the volume of my laugh.”
Akira cocks his head at me, grinning away. “On the contrary. I do not think you need to work on that at all.”
What. Is this extremely handsome piece of mochi trying to flirt with me? Panic skitters through my gut like a tiny, freaked-out mouse and my flight instinct kicks into high gear. Now is the time to get out of here, while this—whatever this is—is still living in that space where it can be a perfect fantasy. I’ll go back to my grandparents’ place and dream about brushing his shaggy hair off his forehead and skimming my fingertips over his ridiculously adorable dimple and skipping through this beautiful park together—
“My shift is almost over,” Akira says. “What sights were you planning on seeing today, Kimi from America?”