How can you tell if a place has become home? Is it when you know how to sort your trash and when to put it out at the kerb? Is it when you know which shop sells rice, and which has the best oranges, and where to find your favorite brand of sake? When you look forward to the next episode of Nani Kore? (“What is that?” a show which goes all over Japan finding obscure monuments like a tree growing from a roof or the longest, steepest temple stairs anywhere or boats with sad faces) on TV or, on that crazy food show, start betting which dish at CoCoCurry is the number one favorite before the hapless guys (who have to eat whichever choice they make) guess what it is? Or is it when you check every day on the progress of leaves and flowers, opening out along the river, and keep forgetting to take crumbs for the birds? Is it when you are headed for the subway station but stop to cheer for the wheelchair marathon, and someone hands you a flag to wave, like everyone else? Or when you go out with the local ladies to see the seasonal blooming of misu-basho and share a lunch of okonomiyaki the way they make it back home in Kansai before hanging out at a temple (all equally clueless as to what to do) and sharing family stories on the way home, stories that could happen anywhere?
Maybe it has something to do with going local. With the help of our brave secretary, we have gone to local concerts, talked with a local history expert, and even joined local folks when they went off to Hirosaki, a 6-hour drive round-trip (ten, if you count the traffic jam downtown), to see the 5000 sakura (cherry trees) in bloom there along with pilgrims from all over Japan and the local American air force base, and to buy the local apples. Two weekends back, we went to the big city-wide Flea Market in Dainohara Park, where zillions of small family groups spread out a blanket on the grass with their old clothes, old toys and some real old treasures, and found souvenirs to something we did four years back (the chaggu-chaggu-umakko horse festival in Morioka) as well as a useful teapot (ours had a crack) and a happi-coat. We also provided a handy opportunity for grandsons to practice their shy "Hello," impressing their beaming grandmothers.
Maybe it has to do with making pilgrimages to places we loved before, not because they are famous or anything, but just because we went there so often, or something particularly touching happened there. It was near the Seiyu grocery store in our old neighborhood that we watched the Seiyu checker in his clean green apron gently take the elderly gentleman by the arm and escort him across the street and off home. One beautiful Saturday, we stopped by there and bought sandwiches, tea, and a couple of fresh cream-pan and picnicked in the cemetery on the ridge near Kitayama Station, admiring the roofline of the nearby temple, the dramatic clouds, the just-opening sakura and the song of the uguisu in the branch above our heads, then walking the tiny neighborhood back-trails down to the train station at Kita-Sendai. We went to Shiogama a weekend back not to see the amazing shrine or eat the incredible sushi, as we did last time, but to eat lunch at the boat terminal, admire improvements to downtown, revisit the little stationery shop and the grocery, recalling the long cold day’s evening we spent four years ago, wandering the downtown, waiting for a procession to return to the shrine. On another gorgeous day, we went to Matsushima not to see the famous temple, but certainly for the stunning views and also for lunch and to do some sketching, and to revisit our favorite shop that not only sells most of the many fabulous tops to be found in Tohoku but also spins them for you, to demonstrate how they work. That we got to hear a street calliope and see a reallyfat Corgi was just icing on the cake!
Last night, before going home to pack, we stopped by the busy corner where the 7-11 is, and the Kent Cookie shop, and while I waited for Robin to get cash and sake and crackers to take home, I watched the flu-masked housewives race by on their bicycles, aprons flying, the uniformed teenagers out after manga and snacks, the bus wheel by on its way to the bridge, and thought this is home; I’m really going to miss this! We had just walked down the street from the university, where I had said good-bye to a new friend who shares a love for fantasy, Dr. Doolittle, and things that are “mysterious.” She and I plan to work together on a book about Masamune Date, this great city’s great founder, and that way maybe I can give a little something back to the city I have come to love.
