I found that Narita was much easier to navigate without my giant duffle. In fact, now that I wasn’t in everyone’s way, the city even seemed a little friendlier. I was free to explore, and there were so many new, strange sights. I felt a little like I’d landed on another planet. There were lots of food stalls and lively little restaurants with traditional Japanese exteriors. I contemplated ordering something, but decided that Konbini (convenience store) food would be more practical and painless. And yet I passed by several konbini, still reluctant to settle for fluorescents and crinkly plastic. I examined several menus outside appealing little bistros. Most of them had no English. Disheartened, I pretended to be perusing them with curiosity and discernment. [I was still very self-conscious about my gaijin-ness].
I wandered down narrow streets without any sidewalks--intimacy and venerability to rival the likes of Toledo and Carcassonne. I hesitated at one alleyway. Still cozier, it also hosted several little restaurants. There I happened upon my gaijin gem: “Tacos Factory,” a “Mexican Dining Bar.” I was utterly drawn in by the intriguing premise and the accessible menu. No one would have to explain a ‘quesadilla’ to me. And to think, I could eat Japanese food in America, and days later, LA food in Japan!
Friendly cooks shouted to me from the first-floor window. “Irashaimase!” They waved me toward a tiny, rickety flight of twisting stairs. I hesitantly climbed it, feeling like Alice in a rabbit-hole. But once I reached the top, I found myself in a wonderful little eatery, perched precipitously above the street. The atmosphere of the place was exquisite. Nine square feet of seating and a pint-sized bar-tap. I was enveloped by a comfortable closeness; toasty warmth and the scent of tobacco, low lights and murmured conversation.
A cheery waitress behind the bar motioned me in, and I slid onto a barstool at a slim counter lining the window. I was a little shocked so many people could fit in one space, and delighted that a restaurant could be so small and comfortable without feeling crowded and noisy. The waitresses bantered with customers in a genuine, friendly way, uninhibited by the stilted Japanese etiquette of strangers. I looked out onto the cold street, safely tucked into my new retreat. And once again, alone was okay.
Then something miraculous happened: the waitress came to chat with me. Her warm, friendly conversation washed away all of the awkward, insecure, ‘foreign-ness’ of the past 4 or 5 hours. We discovered that we were both college students, and that her major is English Literature (while mine is Japanese Art History). She told me her favorite author is Henry James, but she has only read him in translation.
It was affirmation, exactly when I needed it most. The biggest of my insecurities was this: here I was, devoting my career to Japanese studies, without ever having been to Japan, and barely knowing the language. The past few hours had revealed just how little I knew about Japan--just how foreign I was. I definitely had a few “what the hell am I doing?!” moments. But here was another college student confidently devoting herself to a completely foreign thing. She didn’t have enough English to read the literature she had decided to specialize in, and suddenly it was okay that I speak so little Japanese. I felt like we were in the same predicament, and I was fortified by her cheer and excitement. She was the first person I really talked to in Japan, and I felt like we had a lot in common. I went home practically skipping.
Oh, plus the quesadilla was really good. Someday I’ll give Tacos Factory a full review; for now, I’ll just give it my highest recommendation.
No comments:
Post a Comment