Who Needs a Soup Ladle When You’ve got a Baby?

The “Furidashi Juku”, or “Fresh Start School”.

It was nearly eight p.m. when we arrived at the Fresh Start School.  Papa Junpei parked the van up next to the house and I tumbled out, straight into the mud.  It was hard to get my bearings in the dark, but the house was right there in front of my nose so I focused on getting to the wooden porch (through the squelching mud), where shoes and boots were lined up along the bottom step. Two women had come to the door to greet us. The older woman was, I guessed from my daughter’s description, the co-owner of the school, Hiromi-san.  Let me qualify “older”, though, as she was one of those women whose age is impossible to guess. Though Hiromi’s skin was brown from years of outdoor work, it was smooth, fresh and glowing; though her hair was graying, it was thick and luxurious. She looked to be in excellent shape, and was dressed in no-fuss, practical work clothes.  The other woman hovering in the background  introduced herself with a shy smile as “Akiko”, and I understood that she was an acolyte, or Fresh School student, rather than family. There was still no sign of Hiromi’s husband Geta-san, who I had expected to meet hours earlier at the bus stop.

Papa Junpei, Mama Haru and the babies piled into the house, and we all stood around looking at each other. I can’t tell you how awkward this felt. Here’s the scene I had expected:

Hiromi-san:  Welcome, welcome!  You’ve come a long way!  You must be tired…..

Me:  No, no, I’m fine. Thank you so much for having me. Please excuse my intrusion                                                into your home. I’ll be indebted to you for the weekend.

Hiromi-san: We’ve so looked forward to your coming, so please relax and make yourself at home.

Me:  Thank you. I’ll do my best not to be a pain in the neck, and help out wherever I’m needed.

That conversation is a standard ritual for visitors in Japan, yet Hiromi-san wasn’t following the rules.  I was ready to speak my lines, but “Thank you” would have been inappropriate when my hostess hadn’t yet said, “Welcome!”, so I remained uncomfortable and silent, beginning to harbor a fear that I was not, in fact, welcome at all and that this trip had been a mistake to begin with.

Instead of small talk and formal greetings, the topic was, “Where is Geta-san?”.  Apparently, Hiromi’s husband had gone “into town” for a meeting of some sort, and it was past time for his return. We sat around the low table already laden with food and began eating, but it was apparent that the family was worried about Grandpa (as the babies knew him), so I was hardly relaxed. How terrible if something had actually happened to this man I had not yet met, I thought, willing him to be on his way home after an overly-long meeting.  And as I sat there hesitantly helping myself to chunks of deep-fried goat cheese and thinking, “Hurry back,  please…”,  the door banged open and Grandpa Geta was home. Phew.

Geta-san, and his wife, Hiromi.

So at last I met the other co-owner of the Fresh Start School. Wearing a white peasant shirt and a big sheepish grin, Geta-san apologized profusely as he made his way to the table. “Well, I couldn’t help being late–they got me drinking, they did,” he explained, his sheepish grin betraying more than a hint of enjoyment and sheer mischief.  We all relaxed immediately (though I wondered how on earth he had navigated up the Mountain of Mud in his state of inebriation) and the tension dissipated. I began to enjoy the goat cheese. And I began to notice what was happening with the babies.

Mothers who like their babies snugly restrained and properly fed would have had heart palpitations watching Baby Sane and his twin brother Mitsu, who had the run of the house while the adults were eating. I watched them in fascination as they toddled about the room, making their way back to the table occasionally for a few spoonfuls (or handfuls) of rice or vegetables. When not grazing at the table, they were engaged in various “experiments”.  Mitsu was absorbed with the large pot of miso soup, which sat unsupervised upon a nearby hot plate close to the main table.  Apparently the soup had cooled considerably, since his placid expression never changed while testing the broth with his forefinger. When this grew dull, he boldly plunged his entire arm into the pot, stirring away industriously, ignored by the adults who were engrossed in Geta-san’s description of the drinking party. Meanwhile, at the other end of the room, Baby Sane had worked the lid off the wood stove and had found the (cold) ashes inside. Oh, THAT looked like fun, I thought, watching him dig about in the ashes with quiet concentration. This was not my house, neither baby was in danger, and I assumed that this was a normal mealtime scenario; I moved from relaxing a bit to enjoying myself.

I was ravenously hungry, and the kind of meal set out on the table was exactly the kind I love best: simple vegetarian cooking–no fuss and nothing fancy. Fresh, crispy lettuce leaves were set out in a bowl to be eaten as they were (my daughter loved them as finger food) or with home-made dressing; the delicious fried cubes of goat cheese; some kind of wild greens tossed lightly in a saute; a hearty miso soup with daikon and more greens; and I cannot remember what else….pickles, perhaps?  As we ate, I ventured to ask some questions and was surprised to learn that Sane and Mitsu’s parents had fled Tokyo after the 3/11 Quake, deciding to settle in at the grandparents’ place permanently.

But….but….Tokyo’s a long way from Tohoku, where the epicenter of the quake and the nuclear meltdown occurred. Were they not over-reacting?

Of course I did not ask this, but I could not help thinking it. Conscious of my position as a guest in the house (a guest who had invited herself , to make matters even more delicate), I did not push my own opinions; instead, I listened to Mama Haru’s narrative and imagined myself in her place. “We left Tokyo the morning after the quake, ” she admitted, correctly assuming that the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant would not withstand the double-punch of quake and tsunami, and determined to get her children as far out of the path of nuclear fallout as possible. Having spent her own childhood in Nagano Prefecture, Haru knew the geography well:  isolated by mountains (9 of the 12 highest mountains of Japan are found there) and situated far from the East Coast, she was certain that her parents’ home would be a safe haven.  Happily, her husband Junpei was of the same mind (“I couldn’t wait to be gone,” he said).  So the morning after the quake they threw diapers, food, and gas into the car and were on the road to Nagano before the nuclear explosions even occurred. “We were in such a rush I left behind my insurance card and all my identification,” said Haru.  “I was just thinking of the babies and getting out of Tokyo.” They drove straight inland without stopping, beating the post nuclear explosion traffic and ensuing gasoline shortage.

The sheltering mountains of Nagano Prefecture (photo from zeusbox.com).

A year and some months later, Haru, Junpei and the babies are still in Nagano (after making a brief trip back to Tokyo to retrieve their insurance cards and other valuables), with no regrets. It is now widely known that fallout from the nuclear explosions at Fukushima Daiichi did reach as far south as Tokyo, with particularly high levels reported on the day of March 15th.  Many Tokyo citizens remained indoors, glued to the news, on the 15th, but others were out and about as usual, still focused on stockpiling food, lining up to buy gas, and attempting to commute to work in spite of erratic train schedules and threats of rolling blackouts (which ultimately bypassed Tokyo and hit the suburbs).

In the year and a half since the disaster occurred, it has been determined that radiation from Fukushima Daiichi spread in several distinct plumes, stretching far southward to the prefectures of Ibaragi, Saitama, Tokyo and Kanagawa as well as westward to Tochigi and Gunma, stopping at the mountains of Nagano. In the end, an estimated 8 percent of Japan’s entire land mass was contaminated. Neighborhoods in those prefectures continue to be plagued by “hot spots” (isolated areas of abnormally high radiation levels), which are monitored constantly by citizen activist groups.  Most citizens of Tokyo and surrounding prefectures chose to stay put after the quake and nuclear crisis, but purists like Haru and Junpei (those who firmly believe that even a little radiation is too much) departed swiftly in the first weeks following the explosions and have not returned.

Nervous Tokyo citizens can relax in this “bequerel-free” cafe, equipped with a radiation detector from Belarus (photo by Miako Ichikawa, Asahi Shinbun).

Haru and Junpei were extremely lucky. They had a destination in mind, beds waiting for them, enough gas to make the journey, and no loans to repay in Tokyo. They were able to pick up and go, and had the courage and foresight to move swiftly. Safely ensconced in the tiny village of Ooshima, they are able to raise their baby boys relatively free of fear and paranoia. Parents in Tokyo continue to scrutinize labels in supermarkets and worry about the radiation level of food in restaurants, with some cafes now featuring radiation detectors on the premises to reassure customers. In a contrasting scenario, Haru, Junpei, and their children enjoy self-sufficiency, eating only their own produce and rarely buying anything “in town”. Haru stays near the house every day, devoting herself to the boys and doing most of the cooking. Papa Junpei works together with the in-laws (they all seem to get along) planting rice and vegetables, harvesting according to season, doing various construction projects, and teaching the steady stream of folks like my daughter: acolytes who come to learn practical skills and find a “fresh start”.  The acolytes, who inhabit various tiny cabins built around the main house, care for the animals (goats, chickens, and rabbits), help with the cooking and cleaning on a rotating schedule, and experience self-sufficiency first-hand. Everyone works hard, eats well, and sleeps soundly, with the exception of the rooster, who I suspect suffers from insomnia. But that’s a story for my next post.

Of course, what I’ve just described is not everyone’s idea of an idyllic life. “They live with the in-laws!” you say? Well, yes, but that’s actually no big deal.  Many Japanese couples do; it’s expected in some families, and grandparents are a great help with child-rearing. “Who wants to live out in the boonies? Is there even cell phone reception?” is the next question. Hmm. My smart phone was working just fine, even at the top of a mountain (Japan is amazing that way), and the young people I met at the festival some hours earlier seemed bursting with energy and creativity (a good many of them are potters and craftsmen, Junpei explained. He himself was a potter in his former life in Tokyo).  And though Haru sighed and asked me when mothering would become “less consuming”, she and Junpei both seemed relieved to be out of the city.  Living in Tokyo meant bearing a daily psychological burden. Living with the in-laws in Nagano meant a physically hard but relatively anxiety-free lifestyle.

I could understand Haru and Junpei’s choice.  And I was beginning to understand why my daughter loved this place. If you’re not yet ready to pack up and leave for Nagano, I will do my best to convince you in one last post. Until then, good night, take care, and thank you for reading.

Lion Dancing and Treacherous Navigation

When you last saw me, I had been deposited in the middle of a festival.  Dressed like a (US) college student, I was surrounded by earthy-crunchy people and wishing desperately that I was dressed like them.  I own clothes like that, too- I just didn’t bring them.

Haru-san and her friend with their babies. Can you tell that babies at this stage are interested in Mom rather than finding friends?

While I was busy ogling the festival-goers, my hosts had already moved off to chat with friends, taking the placid baby boys with them. No problem. It seemed that Junpei and Haru were not the “Come meet my friends!  I’ll show you around!” types, so it was up to me to strike out on my own and navigate the festival.  Truthfully, what I really wanted was to get to the farm already, have something to eat, and find my bearings (Cue to my nagging conscience: “No, no, never mind what you really want!  That’s not what you signed up for. You’re here for the experience.” ).  And conscience won, of course,  since the other alternatives would have been either faking exhaustion and pleading a delicate constitution (nope–not with my pride at stake), or stating baldly that I did not want to have fun, and insist on going straight home (spoiling their fun, and making no friends from the outset).  I knew that it was best to buck up, plunge into the crowd, and pretend to be at ease.  So I did.

Children willingly getting their heads chomped by Shishimai.

It was a short but action-packed little festival featuring, among other things, a group of grandfathers performing the “Shishimai Odori”–or Lion Dance.  Draping themselves in a huge Chinese-patterned cloth and resembling a many-legged snake or dragon with a large wooden Lion’s head , the men gamboled freely about the festival grounds.  Note: I always feel uneasy when Japanese monsters chase small children (this is a staple attraction at many different festivals, and caused my own children undue anxiety in their toddler years), but at this event–in an interesting reversal– the children were gleefully chasing the lion!  “Why?” I asked the woman next to me, in a brave attempt to make friends and figure out what was happening.  “Well, they want to get their heads bitten,” was the reply. (Oh, right. Of course.)  My neighbor elucidated, and I learned that a head-bite from the Shishimai is supposed to increase brain power.  Still, it was rather unnerving to see parents ignore the howling  as they eagerly rushed to pop their babies’ heads into the clacking wooden jaws of the Lion.  Babies will need the extra brain-power to help them rationalize their inexplicable fear of snakes and lions later on, right?

The many-legged Shishimai, looking for a head to nibble.

Along with the head-nibbling, there were also Taiko performances by schoolchildren, and an African drumming performance by both kids and adults (something that would never happen in Hadano–it’s not “traditional”).  The African drumming was wildly popular, and I was mesmerized by one young mother who happily abandoned her baby to a friend, leaped into the performer’s area and began dancing wildly while the other mothers clapped out the rhythm. With all the excitement going on around me, I could not get a proper photo of her, so I will leave readers to imagine the scene.

Someone dancing at a festival? My sister from New Orleans would wonder why I bother to record such a mundane observation.  In the US, people breaking into spontaneous dance does not make news. In the 13 years I’ve lived in Hadano, however, I’m always startled to see a child dance spontaneously in public. I usually assume they’re second or third generation Japanese kids from Brazil or Peru, and most times I’m right.  I’ve never seen spontaneous dancing anywhere from an adult. So may I please be excused for gaping during the performance? I really could not help it.

Into the van with you, babies!

Shortly after the drumming stopped and the enthusiastic mother in baggy pants was reunited with her baby, the festival drew to a close. My hosts, Junpei and Haru, finally disengaged themselves from their conversations and prepared to pack up the van my daughter had warned me about (very large, very dirty).  Between the babies, the folding stroller, baby bags, backbacks and such, this took time, but at last we were settled in.

The van was indeed dirty.  And it was what my grandparents might have called a  “contraption” rather than a vehicle, since the entire back had been ripped apart to make a large seating area.  No actual seats or cushions, but a nice flat bed and plenty of room for multiple passengers.  I was fine with this, as I had done my “Kokoro no Junbi” (literally, “preparing the heart” in Japanese).  Preparing the heart for what?  Well, for any possible consequences, especially negative ones.  In this case, based on Ellen’s description, I had imagined the worst sort of rattle-trap-rusted-out monster-of-a-van and envisioned myself sitting serenely in the seat, as if I did this every day. Well, in fact I did do that every day during my senior year of college, so I knew I could do it again.

I had neglected, however, to envision the lack of seatbelts. There were none in the van at all, and I forced myself to swallow hard and look unconcerned.  Even the awful thing I had driven during college had had seatbelts, and I’d been grateful for them many times. My inner coward was protesting, but I knew I couldn’t expect my hosts to produce seat belts  out of thin air. I was in no position to be all hoity-toity and refuse their ride home, either.   Somehow, my reserve supply of fortitude had not yet been exhausted, and I managed to  feign a devil-may-care attitude: “Seatbelts? Pish-posh! Who worries about such things?” while waiting for Papa Junpei to get the engine started.  My place was next to the driver’s seat. Haru, mother of the two solemn baby boys, was seated cross-legged on the back floorboards with both babies on her lap, surrounded by the stroller, boxes of festival food, and who knows what else.  The engine started right up and off we went, into the setting sun.  Just like a movie.

Off we go…and we’re headed for those mountains.

After only a few minutes of driving along a riverside, we turned onto a narrow dirt road leading up a hill and into a forest.  After ten minutes of slogging up the hill (the dirt was rapidly becoming mud), I decided it was a mountain.  Darkness descended, and it was not just dark, it was completely and totally dark with only the stars and the headlights for illumination. Up until this point, Haru and the babies had been sitting quietly in the back; either Sane or Mitsu was nursing (I could not tell which) and the other twin was eating crackers.  If the driving conditions got no worse than this I could almost relax, though the mud seemed to be getting more treacherous and the van moving more slowly.  Then one of the twins began to fuss.  Not a BIG fuss, but a small insistant whimper of discontent.

“Shall I take one of them?” asked Papa Junpei from the driver’s seat (“No, no!” I thought).

“Oh, yes, please,” said Mama Haru from the back, and one of the good-sized baby boys was pushed gently toward the front.

“I’ll take him,” I said immediately, intercepting the baton pass. Again, I’m not sure which of the twins I got, but he was happy on my lap…..for approximately five seconds.  Then the howling started, and this time it WAS a big fuss. Reluctantly, I returned the baby to his rightful owner (Papa Junpei), whereupon his tears dissolved instantaneously.  I bit my tongue at the sight of Baby Sane (or Mitsu) now behind the steering wheel, jumping

For the record: This is a “tanuki”, or raccoon dog.

excitedly up and down while his father calmly kept one hand on the child, one hand on the wheel, and one eye on the road.  Our path continued to wind upward with the van moving at a snail’s pace through the mud, while one twin happily cavorted about the driver’s seat and the other nursed blissfully in the back.  Both parents were serene. “Look! There’s a tanuki!” said Papa Junpei, pointing at a mangy dog-like animal seen in the headlights.  I was appropriately impressed, having never seen one up close before, but still wished that the driver had fewer distractions.

By now, we had probably been on the same winding uphill road for at least twenty minutes, and were moving so slowly I had forgotten to be anxious about the lack of seatbelts. The worst thing that could happen seemed to be toppling over into the forest in very slow motion, or (more probably) getting irrevocably stuck and making the rest of the trek on foot.  Either of those options was preferable to careening off the edge of a cliff at high speed, so I began to relax in earnest. Besides, I was too tired to sustain a genuine state of anxiety for long.  The van chugged along through the mud, the babies crowed happily, and just as I was beginning to feel seriously drowsy, we turned off onto a still smaller road which led to our final destination–the farm itself.

And here is where I leave you for the moment. You will see and read about the farm itself in the next post, for it deserves its own post rather than a few lines at the end of this one. It has taken two full posts just to arrive at the Fresh Start Farm, but as it took me a full day to get there via train-bus-festival-and contraption, I think that’s appropriate.  So hang tight: we’re in Nagano, and the next part of the adventure is about to begin.  Good night, and thank you for reading!

Leaving “Civilization” for a fresh start in Nagano

I have a secret.

…….it’s my hidden stash of colorful hippie clothes. My secret stash, the clothes hidden away in a clear plastic storage tub, are treasures-that-cannot-be-worn in my daily life: anything tie-died; anything with camisole straps; anything boasting beads, fringe, pom-poms, tiny bells, or excessive amounts of lace.

My friend Mizue: a perfect example of appropriate dress for women of a certain age. Her clothes are of modest cut, loose-fitting, clean and pressed, and provide protection from the sun.

Why do I keep my treasures hidden? Why do I not wear them? Well, it’s complicated. In my world (not Tokyo, mind you. The big city is what comes to mind when foreigners think of Japan, but Tokyo is actually a separate world within Japan itself ), ladies of a certain age dress modestly and conservatively, and I’d rather fit in than stand out here, appearance-wise.  I’m no tourist; I live here, and facing the stares of curious or disapproving neighbors  on a daily basis would wear me down. I need to belong, and part of belonging is a recognition of and obedience to unwritten social conventions.

As a foreigner, however, I have a bit of leeway.  I am excused for minor fashion errors in light of my nationality ( Americans can’t be expected to know any better), and I do take full advantage of this. The clothes I wear to work everyday  in the summer are in no way standard for women my age (neckline too low and showing too much–gasp–bare arm) , and neither are they professional. In my defense, I believe they are appropriate for the work environment since it’s MY cram school after all, and I’m allowed to make the rules.

Here I am, in my typical summer garb, wearing far less clothing than any of my students. This is about the wildest I can get and still pass inspection with the mothers (note my yellow No Nukes! button).

The mothers of my students seem to accept this as well, and I feel no waves of disapproval on parent visitation days.  In deference to these same mothers (whose monthly fees translate to my monthly salary, and whose adorable children keep me engaged and entertained on a daily basis) I am also careful not to push the envelope too far: no jeans with holes at work, and lacy slipper-socks rather than bare feet (remember that this is Japan; my English school is a “shoes off” environment. Shoes inside would be unthinkable, but bare feet are not appropriate, either. Socks or slippers must hide naked feet).  Anything item of clothing that might cause the mothers of my students to whisper together or raise an eyebrow goes into the plastic tub, to be saved for summer vacations in the US.  Once there, I dress just as I please.

But now, I’ve found a place to wear my tie-died leggings (they are pink and purple) that is not Tokyo….as long as I don’t mind getting them dirty.

Let me tell you about it.

It’s a village (population less than 1,000 people) in the mountains of Nagano, called Ooshima.  My daughter Ellen discovered it first.  Looking for an interesting place to learn about organic farming and self-sufficiency, she found the “Furidashi Juku”, or “Fresh Start School”, via WWOOF (Worldwide Organization of Organic Farmers). For those of you unfamiliar with the organization, WWOOF  farmers are often, by Japanese standards, unconventional: eager to experiment with both new and old methods of farming, they are always looking for youthful volunteers to lend a hand with their projects.  Yet even among the WWOOF farmers listed online , the folks at “Fresh Start” sounded radically different.  Take their name, for instance.  Japan is not a great place for “fresh starts”, as a fresh start implies a previous failure to function within the system.  Dropping out and withdrawing from that system is often easier than admitting failure and bucking up to try again in an inflexible society that quickly stigmatizers “losers”.  Here was a place, then, that set out to welcome those folks otherwise deemed as “losers”, as well as drawing from the ranks of “normal” energetic and curious young people possessed of a strong work ethic.

The “Fresh Start” message, in a nutshell, seemed to be this: “Have you made a mess of your life? Gone after the wrong things and ended up disillusioned?  Try again, from scratch. Go back to living as simply as possible, and make a fresh start. You’ll find what you’re looking for.” My daughter, at eighteen, has not seen enough of life to be disillusioned,  nor would I describe her life as a mess.  She is, however, passionately devoted to the idea of interacting with the natural environment in an ethical way, and “starting from scratch” sounded perfect for a Japanese teenager who had known nothing but books and tests until her high school graduation.  Ellen had had enough of books already, and was raring to go.

High school graduates at Tokyo’s International Christian High School. It’s an elite school with an excellent English education: still, very few graduates choose to go abroad for college.

Now let me explain one more thing.  My daughter had the freedom to set off on this adventure because she was in a “gap”: graduated from high school in Japan (ceremony in March) and accepted into college in the US ( beginning in September).  Very few Japanese students choose to go directly to a four-year college abroad, and her friends had all begun college in Japan.  She was in a strange world populated by adults and babies, the only ones not in school, so an adventure seemed like the thing to do. My husband and I were all for it, especially since she was financing the trip with her own money saved from part-time jobs (clever girl!),  but my friends were astonished. “She’s going….by herself? And it’s manual labor? You don’t know the farming family personally? And it’s so far away…..”  Well, yes was the answer to all those questions, but none of them seemed like a valid reason not to let her go. Japanese mothers tend to keep even their “adult children” close to home, but in this family, we value independence.  Soooo…..off you go, Ellen!

Sakura the goat and her companions provide milk for the coffee at the Fresh Start Juku. Ellen got up close and personal with Sakura.

My daughter got herself to Nagano ( a full day’s journey from Hadano) via a complicated combination of trains and busses.  Once there, she learned to work hard,  made “cho ii tomodachi”  (or “wicked good friends”), and tested herself daily.  Family and friends eagerly devoured her facebook posts describing the goats ( “I get to milk them!”), the rooster (“My legs are black and blue from being attacked…” ), the rabbits ( “They live in an old, abandoned car..” ), the rice paddies (“We’re doing all the planting by hand!  No machines! One seedling at a time…” ), and the couple who built and ran the farm (“They’ve been to India!  Their house is full of things from all around the world. It’s like a bazaar…” ) . She slept in a “shack”, bathed every other day, used the communal composting toilet,  drank goat’s milk for dinner and home-made herbal tea for breakfast.  She baked bread, took up wood-carving, and talked environmental policy.  Six weeks later, she returned home.

Here’s Ellen, slogging about in the rice paddy in Nagano.

After working in the rice paddy up until the afternoon of her last day, she had boarded the bus to Shinjuku without a chance to bathe. When she arrived home that evening, my eyes flew immediately to her right arm; it was  stained brown up to the elbow from planting rice seedlings in the muck. The two tiny muscles she had earned volunteering in Ishinomaki looked significantly bigger as well–indications that she was now a quite a different Ellen.  My schoolgirl was now….a farmgirl? Or at least a farmgirl-in-the-making.

And so, we welcomed Ellen back to civililization and the world of flush-toilets. She was glad to be home, but sorry to leave her new family in Nagano and bursting with stories and new ideas. In the next few weeks, she spent enough time talking about her experience to get me on board as well.  Mom wants an adventure, too!  I took a notion to see the Fresh Start School for myself, and to personally thank the couple who had taken my shy, inexperienced daughter into their home and given her a measure of courage and real-life experience.  So Ellen called them, we talked by phone, and  the owners of the Furidashi Juku agreed to my idea of a one-day visit. Since the trip itself takes a full day, a one-day visit could hardly be considered worth the time and trouble, but a weekend was all I had to spare and there was no stopping me.

……..Off you go, Ruthie!  One month later, printed route schedule in hand, it was my turn to depart for Nagano by train.  Leaving from Hadano, I got myself to Shinjuku ( the heart of Tokyo, where everyone transfers trains) , then switched lines to board the express train to Matsumoto.  From that point on, I began to leave the city behind and the scenery became steadily greener and more mountainous. Butterflies and moths flitted in and out of the train car at every stop, and wildflowers and weeds lined the train tracks. The lush green mountains closed in on either side; some of them we traversed by tunnel. Finally, at a tiny station called Ina-Ooshima, I boarded the local bus and began the most dramatic part of the journey.  It was one of my worst nightmares: a large bus,  traversing a narrow curving mountain road with barely enough room for a car coming from the opposite direction to squeeze by, and a steep ravine to the right, with only a flimsy-looking guardrail to quell my anxiety.  Below?? A river gorge that turned into a reservoir that turned into a massive dam and

Whew!  Down from the mountains and into the village.

then back into a river again. The driver handled the next thirty minutes of precarious curves cooly and cheerfully, and I willed myself to relax. We descended the mountain, crossed the river, and entered the village of Ooshika, where I was let off at a stop called “Kashio”, or “Salt Lick”.

So there I was, standing on the side of the road, dressed like a college student in T-shirt, jeans, backpack, and organic cotton tote bag from an Eric Clapton concert. I was dressed sensibly, for hard work, yet I felt slightly ridiculous ( I’m 50. I should have outgrown this way of travelling already. Normal people go by car and carry proper luggage, etc. ).  Still, I was determined to meet my host with a big beaming smile. His name was “Geta-san”, and my daughter had said he would come for my pick-up in a very large, very dirty camping van.

I waited nervously along the road (no benches at the bus stop), but no Geta-san.  I began to feel more than slightly ridiculous.  Afternoon had turned to evening and a cool breeze was blowing; even so, I was sweating from the weight of my pack and from the unaccustomed restriction of short sleeves and a high necked shirt (Remember? I spend the summer sleeveless, flaunting my decolletage).  Finally, after what seemed like ages, a young couple pushing a heavy-duty double stroller came into view.  Twin boys with solemn face were standing precariously on the stroller bed, and I realized, from my daughter’s detailed descriptions of the family, that Geta-san’s daughter and her husband had come in his stead.

My pick-up: father Junpei-san and his twins, Sane and Mitsu.

Once our identities had been formally established, the couple wasted no time on unnecessary words of welcome.  Announcing, “There’s a festival tonight so we’ll go have a look around,” they set off in the lead, taking care not to jounce the babies out onto the roadside. Within minutes, we reached what looked to be the center of the village, where a good-sized crowd was gathered, including children in yukata (summer kimono), village grandfathers in cotton festival clothes and tabi, and……earthy-crunchy-looking people!  Although no-one stared at me, I was trying hard not to stare at the unfamiliar sight of women dressed in baggy, organic cotton trousers with colorful bandannas and teeny-tiny tank tops. Where was I?? And why did I come in the wrong clothes?? I wanted the contents of my plastic treasure tubs immediately!  Aaah, no matter–I would enjoy myself anyhow.  But you must wait until the next post for the details.

Don’t worry–I will not throw my hard-earned career (or my husband and the in-laws, Grandma and Grandpa Iida) to the wind and take up life in a commune in Nagano….but I may be tempted.  Stay tuned, and thank you again for reading.