The first thing I remember…slang shouts to beckon buyers, the hum of commercial hustle and food sizzle, the play of light and shadow as the sun shone through the flea market stands. I’m a twenty-something sojourner in a foreign land having the time of her life. It’s Saturday, at the Toji Temple flea market in Kyoto. Being easily a foot taller than most, I’m not sure what’s more mesmerizing, me or my experience. Tomoko, my adopted big sister for the summer, is weaving me competently through the stands. I’m an architectural intern with the Rotary Club International who sponsored this partnership with my university. I was in the midst of an “Eat-Pray-Love” journey years before the book became a global bestseller and box office hit. Elizabeth Gilbert and Julia Roberts have nothing on me in this moment of complete flow and bliss.
For all the foreign-ness of this trip, I felt more accepted, than I often did back in the US. I expected to be an anomaly here, I didn’t look like anyone, all the people in my Japanese language class were likewise “gaijin” but the cultural norm was “don’t stare, be polite, be welcoming.” And so I was welcomed. My “when in Rome” efforts in Japan were noticed…my broken Japanese met with a quick, surprised smile as everyone did their best to accommodate me in this beautifully different world. My cultural faux pas were met with the quiet acceptance of ignorance…it was obvious that I simply didn’t know better. But it was just as obvious that my presence in such a place was proof enough that I wanted to be exactly where I was…absorbing the soul of Japan.
A culture of dichotomy is Japan, with tradition and modernity juxtaposed, the natural and man-made in handshake, the spoken and unspoken as soldiers in polite but firm face-off. Japanese artistry and craft are treasured. The actions taken to preserve their history and culture speak very loudly. As an artist, I appreciate being able to see firsthand “the way” that is Japanese from the textiles, tea, architecture, cuisine and pop culture. I saw differently after that summer and eventually went on to study historic preservation. But I end with an Irish saying, “may the road rise to meet you,” as even my own path makes its way known.