My Year in Japan III – Meeting the Neighbours

When we moved into the humble apartment in the six-unit complex, I hadn’t known to take a small gift to each of my new neighbours.  In spite of having pored over stacks of library books on Japanese culture and social norms, I had missed that one and would only learn it months later when then next new tenant moved into the building. I had never met our neighbours other than returning a friendly, “hello” from the teenage son of the family who lived under us.

We could hear our downstairs neighbours chanting every morning and every evening for at least an hour. We couldn’t decipher what they were chanting, but we got a kick out of the fact that it sounded to me like “Ya lo haré mañana” in Spanish (I’ll do it tomorrow).

One fall morning I awoke to deeper snow than I’d ever seen.  I felt like I did when I was a child and school would be cancelled for the day.  I had to play in it!  So I bundled up well and headed outside with a ladle for scooping. The type of snow that had fallen was perfect for sculpting and excavating.  It didn’t take me long to dig a rabbit-den-style snow fort complete with entry tunnel.  Once I’d carved out a little room big enough to sit in, I went inside and sat there.  It was peaceful inside.

The next thing I knew there was a woman peering into my little snow abode.  She was saying something to me in Japanese that I didn’t understand.  I said, “konnichiwa” and smiled.  She was holding something out to me.  I gave her a puzzled look. She said, “Doozo,” which I knew was a phrase used when one person is offering something to another. You also use it for “Please come in,” “Please sit down,” and more.

I took a mug from her hand and said, “Doomo arigatoo” while bowing a couple of times.  She returned the bows and disappeared back into her apartment.  The thick, cream-coloured liquid in the mug was steaming hot.  I took a sip. Oh, yum!

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Later that afternoon I knocked on the woman’s door in order to return her cup.  She invited me in.  I took off my coat, mittens and boots and had a seat on a sofa.  (Yes, ironically we lived more Japanese style than most of the Japanese people we met in Sapporo. They all had couches and we sat on the floor in our flat.) The teenage son was there who always said “hello” when we saw each other in passing. They stared at me like I was behind bars in a zoo or something, expectantly waiting for me to do something interesting.

Not knowing what else to say and not knowing much Japanese, I thanked her again for the beverage.  ”Oishii deshita,” I said. (It was tasty.)

There was more staring.

It may have been the son who dared speak first.  I don’t remember now, but he probably asked something like, “Amerika-jin desu ka?”  (Are you American?)

“Hai, soo desu,” I would have answered.

We managed to have a rudimentary conversation around the most basic of questions and answers.

Who is the man?

That’s Xavier. He studies at Hokudai.  He is not American. Supain-jin desu.

I came to understand after much pantomime and pointing that she and her husband owned the scrap metal yard across the alley

This is Yuji, one of our sons.  We have another son, a daughter-in-law and a grandson. My husband is at work.

I don’t remember how future visits came about, but I ended up introducing them to Xavier and we became rather close to them as neighbours. They offered us their phone number for emergencies since we didn’t have a phone. They were quite eager to show us their Butsudan and Gohonzon (Sama) hanging inside it.  I was curious about the items that had been placed in front of and on either side of the shrine: a tidy pyramid of oranges, plant sprigs, a bowl of rice, incense.

Mrs. K showed me her chanting beads and sutra booklet. She tried explaining what it was all about, but the Japanese was too advanced for me. She used a lot of gestures and did her best, seeming quite eager for me to get it.

The Ks were a humble, hard-working family. I was put at ease by their simplicity and earthiness. They didn’t have a car or any fancy things. Their skin wasn’t pale like that of the university profs. They were tan from working in the scrap yard. Their hands were strong, fingernails dirty.  I liked them.  He was a tall, quiet man who imbibed quite a bit  every night, but only after sitting in front of the object of worship chanting for over an hour, the string of beads (juzu) laced over his fingers. He didn’t become silly, loud or belligerent when he drank. Sometimes his buddies came by for a game of Mah Jong.

One day Mrs. K invited me to a meeting in the neighbourhood. Out of curiosity, I went.  That was the beginning of my journey of conversion–from spectator to participant in her religion. I’ll tell you about that next time.

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