The Old Man and the Sea

I was innocently doing laundry at about 6:30 pm last night when my doorbell unexpectedly rang. Expecting to see Charlie on the other side of the door, I quickly opened it up. There stood the superintendent of the Minakurukan, Komata-San, a short, old man who commands an incredible amount of respect in the office (yet maintains the demeanor of a well-meaning grandpa). He was wearing a blue polo shirt, a Le Coq Sportif cap and a black Kappa track jacket. “We’re having a party,” he said simply in Japanese, “let’s go”. I hastily finished hanging my laundry and ran out my front door to see him waiting outside on his bicycle. I hopped on my bike and followed him, having no idea where I was being led. Well, just a few blocks for my apartment we reached a clearing and I saw a large group of people crowded around a series of grills. Turns out, it was an old-fashioned neighborhood barbecue. They had set up three huge charcoal grills, brought literally enough food to feed a small army and even had a small keg of Sapporo (which was pretty much tapped by the time I got there). After giving my formal introduction to the group, I was invited to dine on the delicacies roasting on the grill; squid, beef, pork, mushrooms, potatoes and countless other foods. And they kept bringing out more and more food. At first, they mostly just laughed at my strange mannerisms but soon enough, they were reeling in amazement at the fact that I knew well enough to use the other side of my chopsticks for serving food.

When a guy showed up with a box of large fish heads and plunked them down on the grill, the man to my right turned to me and said “Looks delicious, huh?”. I thought he was just joshing me but as soon as it was done, I was presented with a whole fish head to eat by myself. This required a bit of instruction from one of my newfound friends but I am now in a position to tell you that if you ever find yourself in such a predicament, the soft mush of the eye is to be eaten while the hard part can be spit out.

While I was seated at the party I noticed that as random people walked by, the partygoers would shout out “Hey! Come eat with us!” and a few passerby took them up on the offer. It was a very exoteric event; the only prerequisite seemed to be living in the neighborhood.

Not long after I arrived, I was introduced to the Pilipino high school exchange student, Dominique, who had actually been coached in Japanese by my predecessor, Beau. Her Japanese was good and she also spoke a little English, so I turned to her at a few points during the night to ask random etiquette questions (for example, “What do Japanese people do with watermelon seeds?”).

At about 8:00 or so the Momoishi fireworks came on. It was the last day of Obon, celebrating both dead ancestors and the end of the Second World War. I’m not sure exactly why but they seemed to be organized in spurts. There would be about 5 fireworks followed by a 3-minute pause and then more fireworks. This went on for about an hour. The guy to my right (the same fellow who foisted the fish head upon me) kept saying “Oh! This is the last one!” every time and never seemed to tire of my laughter. When I told the superintendent that I needed to return home briefly to use the bathroom, the fish head fellow insisted that I simply follow him into his nearby house. Once inside, I discovered that he actually had a small urinal in his bathroom, in addition to a Western-style toilet. I am still in awe.

Later in the evening, I actually managed to have a rather enjoyable discussion with a youngish fellow about Japanese literature, despite my remedial grasp of the Japanese language. Apparently none other than Dasai Osamu was born on the Northwestern shore of Aomori, who knew? The guy’s father was apparently an ardent fisher and when I asked him if he liked fishing the son interrupted to say, “Fishing is his life. He is like the Hemingway of Momoishi”.

Well, thanks to the courteous and helpful Blogger support team, the archive links finally got fixed. Embarrassingly enough, it was actually a server-side problem that I easily could’ve caught myself. Alas and alack.