Not the usual political folderol, I know – but I thought we could all use a distraction. This piece was nominated for a Koufax last year (before they unfortunately went verklempt). It's a tad long, I know - but the original was in three installments.
I should post a warning here. This diary gets a mite, shall we say, specific. There are only so many words available in the English language to accurately describe what I saw – and I trend away from the purely gynecological (not enough emotion). This was a fertility festival, after all. So don’t say you weren’t warned! I do understand if some of you find it a bit too much. I will remind you of the fabulous Dood Abides and his specific brand of hilarity. Please keep that in mind whilst reading this.
I hereby swear everything I am about to relate is the gods honest truth – and I have pictures to prove it!
When my husband and I were courting, we decided to attend one of Japan’s myriad fertility festivals. It was, in actual fact, our first formal date.
Up until that point we had been warily circling around one another – neither willing to take the plunge, as it were. We were each recovering from a failed marriage, and recognized the possibility that whatever kind of relationship we initiated, it would likely end up more or less permanent. Let us say the potential was there – we both sensed it; my husband much more willing to take the plunge than I. The whole idea of the committed relationship had left a really bad taste in my mouth by that point, and frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted another one. And I was living near a military base, for crying out loud – talk about smorgasbord! All I had to do was pick the age, the weight and the size. Not to mention the visiting Aussies, Brits and Canadians; as well as Japanese nationals. It was like being a kid in a candy shop!
Nonetheless, I decided to take a chance – I had finally found one smarter than me, and excuse the hubris if I point out that’s really saying something! I’m a strong woman with an outsize personality – I tend to fill a room, if you know what I mean. It takes a very secure man to be comfortable with a woman like that – and that kind doesn’t grow on trees. Finding one is usually cause for celebration. So off we went one chilly fall morning in search of Japan’s medieval and unbelievably extreme past. The festival was being held in an ancient temple immediately adjacent to a tea farm. As is true in all of Japan, the fields butted right up against a city skyscape. Odd, really; fields and fields of jade green bushes opening onto crowded streets flanked by skyscraper apartment buildings. Japan is a country of contradictions – both physically and culturally. I loved living there, and hope to go back some day, but Japan is not to everyone’s taste. Sex is everywhere – treated openly – some of it shockingly outlandish. If you’ve ever seen the movie Translations - you will know what I mean. And that film didn’t venture out of Tokyo – which is almost a country unto itself. I lived in a small seaside community called Akiya – near the Emperor’s summer palace. Beautiful, crowded, friendly and kinky-odd; all of these adjectives apply. Especially when you’re talking about fertility festivals.
When we arrived, it took me almost ten minutes to make it past the entrance. I am including some pictures so you will know what I mean. Frankly, without the pictures I’m sure you will think I am spreading a boatload of hooey. I have told this story before, and it’s the pictures that really clinch the deal. Anyway - flanking either side of the temples gates were huge, and I do mean huge replica’s of human genitalia. As the female Mons is almost always depicted shaved in Japanese culture, it took me a moment (and my future husbands pointing it out) to recognize just what the hell I was looking at. My mouth fell open so far, and stayed there so long, you coulda sold tickets to my tonsils. If you think I was embarrassed – think again – shocked, maybe - but that’s all. By that time I had lived in Japan for 3 years. This kind of thing may not have been old hat, exactly; but I was very aware of the Japanese attitude toward sex. The most popular TV show, 20 past 11 (the time it was on) regularly went into brothels and photographed couples engaging in, shall we say ‘vigorous’ sex. ‘Love’ motels could be found everywhere – even in residential communities. The rooms were let by the hour, and provided all manner of fantasy, from whips and chains (the most popular) to sex on another planet (who knows what that entailed – the Japanese could get really creative when it came to fucking). Every hallway was equipped with its own dildo dispenser (I kid you not – super-dooper huge was the most popular) as well as another one for sexy little outfits; and yes – I know all this from personal experience. So by this time, though I may not have been completely inured - I was fast approaching saturation at any rate.
However - giant penis’s flanked by enormous hot pink pussies absolutely took the cake. This was not something you saw on every street corner. I could tell this was going to be a very interesting day. Ha! We had arrived at around 10 am – and it was quite chilly, even though I was dressed for the cold; so when I came upon the Saki fountain, I was one very happy camper. Now – I don’t usually make a habit of drinking early in the morning; but one doesn’t often get the chance to sample honest to god ceremonial Saki – it’s usually unavailable, and/or too bloody expensive - therefore only trotted out for those ‘special’ occasions. So - a whole fountain! Yummy! That and I really was quite cold (that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it). What I hadn’t counted on was how good that shit tasted (like super cold, clear water flavored with a hint of mushroom), and how willing those priests were to shovel it down this gaijin’s throat. That’s the name for foreigners in Japan – gaijin; roughly translated it means foreigner, or alien, and there is a pejorative attached. So there I am, sipping happily on ladle after ladle of top-drawer, near 100% alcohol content Saki. My hubby-to-be looked on, shaking his head. He had lived in country for 10 years, and knew exactly what I was guzzling, and what it would do. He didn’t say anything, though – just let me slurp away. By the time I was done, fully FOUR ladles of that rice based white lightening was coursing through my now toasty veins, and I was finally QUITE warm, thank you. Which was probably what boyfriend had in mind, actually – the naughty boy!
Now appropriately fueled and ready to roam, I began exploring the temple and surrounding grounds. The big procession/parade was to occur sometime after noon, followed by the not to be missed lucky rice-cake tossing (I’ll explain that later), so there was ample time to nose around. This particular temple’s sole purpose was to celebrate and venerate everything you wanted to know about sex, and several things you didn’t think were humanly possible, and didn’t care to try if they were. Elderly priests in rather severe robes wandered amongst the crowd bowing and explaining – god alone knows what; I mean – what the hell could they be saying? That’s a penis, and that’s not. How much more do you really need to know? Large stone peni (sp?) popped up like the mushrooms I initially thought they were – seating I surmise, for the weary reveler. An entire shrine filled with exaggerated carved genitals proved a popular draw – I mean, people lit incense and left flowers for Christ’s sake – it was like dropping acid while wandering through Hugh Heffner’s private reserve. Only instead of Barbie Benton, you kept running into little old Japanese ladies. Surreal. I kept fighting the urge to break into giggle fits – everyone seemed to be taking all this SO seriously. And I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself, as odd as that may sound.
I purchased some souvenirs – several candy pussies and penis’s (you have no idea how weird it is to write that), along with a genitalia tea set (guess where you drank from), and two Christmas ornaments (that’s right – Christmas ornaments) – a penis whistle (you blow in a small hole at the base and it shrieks at you) and a pussy bell that jingled. I still have all of the above – including the candy. I was not about to walk around sucking on a sugar penis in front of hundreds of drunk men – I might be somewhat liberal in my attitudes toward sex, but there are limits. I was already getting looks - I was one of the tallest women there. Japanese men would come up to me and just begin talking – completely ignoring the beetled brows and dark looks my date threw their way. Let’s just say I would not have cared to attend something like this alone. I have no idea what some of those men said to me – but it didn’t take much imagination to guess. Have I lost you yet? Hang in there folks – its just gets weirder. I have to say, all that Saki made digesting the experience a little easier; especially when they broke out the giant 500 year old penis and started riding it down the middle of the street. I was kindly offered a seat – but declined. All I could think of was someone, somewhere having a picture of me, drunk off my ass, straddling a tree trunk that looked like a giant’s dick. Not going to happen – not then, not ever.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. First I absolutely have to tell you about the museum we stumbled into. As I said – it was a very cold morning. Like an idiot, I had decided not to wear any gloves. After a while, my fingers began to chill, so when we came upon a modernish building, it seemed the thing to go inside. Besides, there were long lines leading up to it, and everyone seemed to be in a rather festive mood. We assumed it was a tea house – a common enough sight wherever you went in Japan. So – in we go, not really expecting anything out of the ordinary. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the minimal light – but adjust they did, and I found myself looking at framed pictures lining the walls of a very long corridor. Everyone in line would stop, look, comment and move on. Cool, I thought – we’re in some sort of gallery or museum. Photos filled the frames – beautifully composed, brilliantly colorful, artistically presented. To me, they looked to be of unusual flowers – kind of like sea anemones – longish stalks with feathery puffs on the end. I commented as such – "Oh honey – look at all the pretty flowers!" Why ever this would elicit chuckles from the surrounding Japanese, I had no idea. Until I turned the corner, that is, and entered the main part of the ‘museum’.
Lord love a duck! I could hardly believe my eyes – case after case after case of pickled penis’s – they had donkey dick, dolphin dick, doggie dick (if dragons had existed, they’d have had that dick too), elephant dick (oh dear God, give me shelter!) and the piece de resistance – the disembodied penis of a whale – a really, really big one. And yes, before you even get the chance to go there – a whale of a ‘tail’ it was! That sucker was all of 20 feet long. It looked like a dead anaconda – except it was as big around as my head. All the Japanese visitors seemed to find it most impressive. There was lots of pointing, excited commentary and open looks of disbelief. Me - I just stared at that hugeantic severed dick, fighting the urge to throw my hands up in the air and run screaming out of the building. Have any of you ever seen the Porky’s film series? Well, in the second film, one of the characters takes off hell bent for leather across country - naked. At one point he jogs in front of a police car, arms akimbo laughing and crying and shouting all at once. The guy sounded like Bela Lugosi on helium. Well – that’s pretty much what I had in mind. It took my hubby-to-be’s steadying hand to anchor me in front of that glass case. I began to imagine I could smell the formaldehyde – impossible, as all the cases were sealed. Still – I did feel a touch faint. How the hell would you feel surrounded by hundreds of disembodied dicks? (Don’t EVEN start).
Well – I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and thought of England. Sorry – one doesn’t often have a chance to pop that particular oater in just anywhere – it was an irresistible impulse – and besides, the inimitable Mrs. Miniver was on last weekend. But I did close my eyes. It was that or pass out. I really needed more of that Saki! Now – I’ve never been a fan of preserved animal parts (way too Jack the Ripper for my taste). I didn’t like looking at them in the Smithsonian; and I wasn’t exactly thrilled here either. Hell - I won’t even touch those innards that come bagged with poultry – up, out and in the garbage for me. But when in Rome - (don’t worry – my world reference tour ends here). So, along with everyone else, I moved from case to case looking at the proffered genitalia. Male only, by the way. Nary a vagina to be found – just the male reproductive organ – in all its pickled glory. That’s what all those photos were of, by the way – when I walked in; not flowers - animal penises. Ones too small and delicate to just hack off and stick in some jar - though God knows, there was one wall chock full of just that – dicks in mason jars, with the ‘donating’ animal listed on an attached plaque (brass – very tasteful).
Now, somewhere in here, I would like to remind you that this was hubby’s and my first date. That means we had yet to get past the kissy, kissy cuddle, cuddle part of the relationship. Talk about hitting the ground running! I’m lucky I wasn’t a permanent shade of pink! Once again – thank God for all that Saki. Without it, I might actually have returned to the bus and just hid under a seat. Everywhere I turned there was some new embarrassment – revelers wearing costumes that included penis noses, banners covered with realistically painted and veined phallus’s, huge, carved representations of just how the mechanics of all this worked (in case you were a dork and had yet to figure it out tab ‘A’ went into slot ‘B’). There were circumcised dicks, un-circumcised dicks, skinny dicks, fat dicks and enormous, cotton-candy colored vagina’s everywhere you turned; if you were into blushing, this was the place! Somehow, it all managed to rise above the level of pornography, though. Maybe it was the priests, or all the old ladies, or the fact that families went. Oh – didn’t I mention that part yet? Oh yes – entire Japanese families – mom and dad and kids in strollers. Just like an outing in the park – nothing unusual here folks, everybody move along. After all – this was a fertility festival; and what could be more salient evidence of fertility than children. People weren’t just praying for crops, here! This was a legitimate, religious event - the Japanese version of Oktoberfest – only without the Johnsonville brats.
There were kids in the ‘museum’ as well – but they, at least recognized the absurdity of it all; pointing, laughing, making crude jokes; while their parents treated each ‘exhibit’ as if it were the Hope diamond. Little babies were pressed up against the glass, as if to impart some of the selected animal’s magic fertility into their genetic make-up. Larger animals were the most popular. Everyone wanted to look at the big ones. Evidently fertility and size were related – at least in the minds of the people in that building. All I wanted at that point was for the entire experience to end. Still, like a good little girl, I followed with the crowd, moving from exhibit to exhibit, trying not to look too hard at the little bits and pieces floating loose in the preservative. You see, some of the exhibits were a bit old, and had started to disintegrate. Finally – I’d had enough. It was definitely time for Elvis to leave the building. Well – as there was a single entrance, only one possible exit presented itself - and we took it. Wouldn’t you know, it emptied into the museum gift shop which was chock-a-block full to the rafters of modern-day sex toys, videos, books, posters, candy and indeed anything your little heart could desire if your little heart was obsessed with The Kama Sutra. I was actually doing OK, until I came face to face with a life-size rubber doll, its mouth making a perfect ‘O’ – moaning at whomsoever walked by. That was it, game called on a count of hysteria, time to get the hell out of Dodge.
The boyfriend was very understanding, though he thought it funny as hell. At this point I wanted to find an actual tea shop, because I desperately needed sustenance - including additional, liberal amounts of Saki. Unfortunately, that was not to be – we’d slid past the noon hour, so it was just about time for the procession to start – the point of the whole darn trip, and something I really didn’t want to miss! As a matter of fact, I could hear the drums pounding away at the other end of the Temple compound. Time to situate ourselves properly to ensure an unimpeded view. I absolutely had to make one more stop by that Saki fountain, though. Just for support. Alas, it wasn’t to be. The fountain was temporarily shut down – evidently all the priests were required to be on hand for the big parade. Ah well – we needed to get moving in order to find a good place to stand anyway. And we managed a doozy – right up front, looking down the processional route. Great for taking pictures. We could see everything quite clearly. I was really jazzed for this – I had heard tales of what to expect – so I was definitely prepared – camera at the ready. The crowd was sizeable – maybe 300 people – every one carrying some symbol of fertility; schoolgirls with pussy popsicles, elderly men and women with tiny penis flags, young men wearing penis charms around their necks – fascinating, unusual and totally cool. I guess ‘Dorothy’ wasn’t in Kansas anymore!
First came the men with hand painted banners – one tapestry, I was told, dated back to the 1700’s. Mixed in with the standard bearers - working the crowd like buskers outside an East End theatre - came the priests; some stern and formal like bishops lining up to welcome a new Pope; others wearing masks decorated to resemble fantastic animals – all sporting easily identifiable genitalia. It was a mixture of reverence and raucousness – people laughed, bowed, or clapped their hands together in prayer. Religion as spectacle, yes – but with an eye toward participation and humor. I was mesmerized. Following all of this were wonderfully costumed musicians – drummers whose rhythmic beat seemed to naturally follow the breathing of the crowd; wind instruments (not too many of these) - high-pitched - almost a-tonal and flat sounding and finally some oddly shaped string thingamabobs that struck up a plaintive note, as almost all Japanese music does. I think it has to do with everything being composed in a minor key. Anyway – it was marvelous – and totally alien. I had grown up in a western culture – very different from Asian sensibilities. Frankly – I prefer the Asian take on life 9 times out of 10. It’s more in tune with nature, and blends both the spiritual and physical – not treating them as separate entities, as we do. I favor that more comprehensive approach. And, on a separate, purely culinary note – the food is stunning; absolutely top-drawer kick-ass nummy. Japan, India, China, Indonesia – pick one – the cuisine rocks the Kasbah. I could eat nothing but Asian food for the rest of my life, and be completely happy. But I digress. We’re about to get to what it was came after all those musicians.
Down the center of the route, so bloody huge you could see it coming from 1000 feet away, came the father of all phalluses. Carved from the trunk of an ancient tree, it took fully 20 priests to carry it – and this was before people began to climb up onto the body to ride. I think the wood was red cedar (whatever, it was stunning) - and it had been polished to a high shine - almost mirror like, really. You could see your reflection in the, um, head? (an experience unto itself, let me tell you!). I have to say I found it absolutely beautiful – the carving was exquisitely realistic (we’re talking circumcised here), and - considering the subject matter (and the fact that most of the handlers were rather thoroughly toasted) - it was treated with enormous respect. As for riding the damn thing – this was a privilege offered to only a few people – mostly girls (go figure) or little kids, so when one of the priests approached and offered me one of the coveted seats, I was indeed flattered (it was one of my Saki purveyors – so I guess I had an edge). But no way in hell was I gonna climb up there and be the focus of hundreds of camera lenses. I gracefully declined, my position going to a rather pretty Japanese schoolgirl who blushingly climbed aboard. More power to her – I was content to stand and watch.
Everyone applauded as it passed, as if the Emperor himself had just gifted them with an audience in the great hall. The gaijins in the crowd mostly looked puzzled or mildly embarrassed; though it was obvious everyone was having a roaring good time. Lots of camera shutters clicking away – and spontaneous shouts of joy or expressions of reverence absolutely filled the air. I had never seen the like, nor was I ever likely to again, I surmised. This festival was held once a year – I’m told there were others like it all over Japan - but as far as I was concerned, this just couldn’t be beat. It took some time for the procession to pass, considering how slowly everyone was moving (and how much everyone had been drinking); and I have no earthly idea where all those carvings and banners and head-dresses eventually went, or where that giant dick was stored after all was said and done. I mean – what do you do with a huge wooden penis? Lay it up against the wall someplace? Maybe they had some stadium-sized basement, like what’s available for Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade floats. God – wouldn’t that be scary? Imaging wandering through some sinister, spooky place and bumping up against that thing in the dark!
It was almost time for the rice cake tossing event, so everyone was hurrying to attach their good luck wish to the sacred tree before the ceremony commenced. This was a common sight in Japan – a small tree or bush covered top to bottom with tiny written expressions of joy or haiku-prayers on every branch. I didn’t quite get what all that was about – so I didn’t venture forth seeking my own mitzvah (I think that’s the right expression). I figured, whatever would be, would be. I tend to be a bit fatalistic that way. Its not that I don’t try to affect change in my life – I just refuse to lose today while worrying about next week. Besides – I wasn’t about to interject myself into the middle of a serious religious event. Its one thing to participate in all of the external hoopla – everybody was having fun with that - but it’s quite another to co-opt a treasured custom and trivialize it by turning it into some kind of tourist event. It’s why I didn’t enter the main temple on site – I would have been observing, cataloging - not participating; and that to me smacked of disrespect. I really, really loved Japan and its people. I hate to keep going back to that film Translations – but that’s how it really is over there. I have never been anywhere else in the world where a complete stranger would go out of their way to help someone who’s lost – even to the point of dropping what they were doing in order to serve as guide. Wonderful, warm people. No way would I ever mock the Japanese people’s deeply held Shinto beliefs.
I noticed the crowd was starting to make its way toward the back of the compound, so the boyfriend and I followed. I had been told what to expect here – I mean, this was the high point of the entire festival – the tossing out of the rice cakes. Catching one was super important – this was not Mardi Gras with the tits=beads thing; no - more like when a bride throws her bouquet. Anyone who caught one of these cakes was absolutely guaranteed to have a fertile year – and that meant in everything – business, family, life. This was a core Shinto tenet – the most important, in fact. It is essential you understand this, or what happens next will make absolutely no sense whatsoever. So - getting a prime spot under one of the balconies was very, very important. I followed the excited and ever growing crowd as it snaked its way forward. Eventually we emptied out into an open area directly adjacent to a typical looking (for Japan) two-story building (Eames inspired). I was kind of concerned – this place was obviously way too small to contain everyone safely. And the crowd was getting really massive – that tight little square had people packed shoulder to shoulder. Individuals of every stripe were there – teen-aged rockers, elderly pensioners, middle-aged businessmen. Everyone wanted to catch one of the rice cakes. Never having attended anything remotely like this, I really didn’t know what to expect. The thought of soccer stadium style violence as a possibility never even entered my mind.
My boyfriend and I slowly moved ourselves forward until we stood somewhat center, very close to the two balconies that cantilevered out over the crowd. Men wearing brightly colored tunics emerged and began placing large baskets filled to overflowing with brilliant, white, ribbon wrapped rice cakes at certain points against the balcony railings. I took some pictures – it was such a pretty sight – very formal - rather dignified, in fact. Everyone began to situate themselves as close to these baskets as possible. Then the priests came out wearing traditional garb – height enhancing headdresses and all. A ripple pulsed through the crowd. People were beyond excited at this point – you could feel the energy – and there was this sense of anticipation hanging over everything. All day long, each and every incident had built up to this particular moment – the entire festival telescoped into a single event. Remember - if you caught one of the rice cakes – it was enough good luck to last out the year – so getting yourself positioned correctly was essential. I had heard and read about this sort of thing since I moved to Japan – I’d even see representations on Japanese TV. Now I was actually there. I was about to see how the process worked for myself. I found myself being pushed closer in. As I was easily one of the tallest people there, I was gifted with a somewhat unimpeded view. Cool, I thought – I can see everything; why - I might even catch one of the damn things myself!
I could tell it was time. The priests began the blessing process. Again – very formalized with specific movements and hand gestures. It was like watching Kabuki Theatre – stylized and showy with sharp, heavily punctuated vocalizations. The crowd grew restless – people shifting their feet, pushing in closer toward the balconies. I began to have some misgivings – the square was too crowded, people shoved up way to close against each other - like sardines in a can. This might work during rush hour on the subway, but one could sense the potential for disaster. Still – I wasn’t prepared for what actually happened. I should have been – any culture that buttons itself up as much as the Japanese has to have some kind of emotional outlet. It was apparent in the Manga (comics) available in every store and on every news stand – lots of violence – most especially bloody, violent sex. Game shows were the most popular entertainment on local TV at that time – and they, without fail, always featured either violence toward, or humiliation of the contestants. Fear Factor was a hit in Japan a good 20 years before making it to American shores. The unifying feature was a huge emotional response; an amalgam of desire and frenzy – frighteningly intense, devastating in its execution. Think Argentina vs. Brazil for the World Cup.
It was finally time. The crowd drew in its collective breath. So did I, to be honest. Suddenly, all those men who had so carefully and reverently placed rice cake laden baskets along the balcony edge dove in like they were bobbing for apples. Rice cakes, fired like missiles began winging their way into the crowd, wreaking havoc. Screams went up, and people began to scramble – jumping into the air, fighting with each other, tearing at clothes and hair – it was a riot, pure and simple. I saw two old ladies slapping each other silly, each claiming ownership of the same little cake. One middle-aged man punched his neighbor in the face, stealing the man’s rice cake and holding it up like a trophy in triumph. I was appalled – and more than just a touch frightened. All of a sudden, I saw one of those cakes come flying toward me. Instinctively I ducked, so the damn thing banged into my side, slipping down to the ground. That fucker was like a rock! I bent over to retrieve it, again out of habit. Something falls down next to you, you pick it up. That when the little old man entered the fray. Down he dove, practically lying on the ground, his hands locking around that rice cake like it was the only food he’d seen in a month of Sundays. Problem was - my hand locked over the cake, too – I did this without really thinking. Just as a response to what was happening. When the old man saw me do that – we left the lovely island nation of Japan, and entered the Twilight Zone.
My hand was grabbed, the thumb bent backwards. I gasped in pain, moving to straighten up. That really hurt! Still not quite understanding what was happening, I tried to help the old man up, thinking he had fallen and was in grave danger of being crushed by the crowd. Unfortunately, I still had hold of that rice cake. Before I could move another inch, the man attacked. He began viciously biting my ankles, grabbing each foot with his hands to hold me still. I reacted to the shock and pain without thinking, and kicked out at him. Oh My God! Oh. My. God. - I had just kicked a little old Japanese man! What a horrible thing to do! That’s it - I was going to go to hell! I felt terrible – so I immediately bent down again to try and help him up. That bastard began biting my fingers! Really! I was shocked. Hubby-to-be grabbed me and pulled me up before I ended up on the ground with tooth boy and got trampled under foot. It took some doing, but we squeezed back through the crowd until finally making it out into the clear. I still had a hold of my rice cake, which was a miracle, considering. Somewhere in the midst of all this, I had stuffed the damn thing in my pocket - but jeeze Louise! My hand hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and there were teeth prints all over my ankles. Thank God that nasty bugger hadn’t broken the skin, or I’d have had to endue a tetanus shot as soon as we got back to the base. I had no idea what happened to the old man, and frankly, by that point I could have cared less.
Hubby to be and I slowly made our way back to the bus. The event was, for all intents and purposes over. Once the rice cakes were tossed, it was simply a matter of people stopping to pick up the odd souvenir before heading back to their lives. And I’d certainly seen all I wanted to at that point. We settled into the far back seat where there was more room. It had been quite a day! I looked at all my treasures – the tea set, which I still display proudly (right next to a companion piece gifted me by a friend who got his in Mexico), my Christmas ornaments (the whistle always makes people smile), all that graphic candy (now kept in a bag in my linen cupboard) and of course, my rice cake – inedible, hard as a rock and very dearly won (if you could call it that). The rice cake’s the only thing I don’t still have. I kept it the requisite year – despite its getting all green and fuzzy after a couple of months. I will admit to some nostalgia when I shit-canned it – but the memory of ankle boy kept any and all sentiment at bay. I was gone from Japan within two years, moving stateside with the then boyfriend and now husband. Things had indeed changed. And my life has been quite fruitful – so I guess hanging on to that rice cake was a good thing – nasty old man and all!