Getting Here

Tearful goodbyes are difficult. But this one was especially so because we were leaving two people to whom I am particularly attached. With all its ups and downs, living with my parents had proven invaluable to me, and moreso to my daughter. She has grown and changed so much, all for the better, under the skillful added guidance of my parents. The attachment to them was not solely my own this time. Aria adores her Obaachama and Grandpa, and I knew she could not understand as we were herded through the security line, that when she said "Goodbye Obaachama! Goodbye Grandpa!" with a wave and a smile, that she was not simply leaving them for a day or two. That, compounded with the immense sense of gratitude and regret, made it impossible for me to hold back my tears (tears which apparently moved several people in line behind us to cry as well). Gratitude for my parents actions throughout my stay with them, their generosity and kindness; regret for all the petty fights I had with them and all the words I never should have said in the midst of day to day stresses and conflicts. None of these tears were a surprise to me or anyone who knows me. But they still hurt to cry.

Placing all of this in the very recent past, we moved forward and upward. Literally. For not only were we heading up to the big blue sky, we were also traveling forward in time by 16 hours. We were headed for the future in more ways than one.

Hopping on "a big airplane going to Japan" (a plane which proved much less like a cattle car than I had anticipated), we took a deep breath and attempted to prepare mentally for all that might lie ahead. And by ahead, I don't mean the next three years we will be living in Sasebo. I mean the 21 hours of travel we would face with a two and a half year old. She fluctuated between a overwhelming desire to jump up and down on the seat, a heartfelt need for cuddle time with either Mommy or Daddy, and a blissful contentedness while watching Mickey Mouse on her portable DVD player. But not once, the whole trip, did she throw a tantrum. My husband and I could not be prouder if we tried. She was nothing short of an angel, because she not only behaved herself in a truly "orikou" fashion, but she also made the trip so much more fun and focused for the two anxious grown-ups flanking her.

After a decently smooth 10.5 hours in the air, we landed somewhere in the depths of Terminal 1 at Narita Airport in Tokyo, where we were told to go through immigration, then customs, and then catch the yellow shuttle bus to Terminal 2 to catch our domestic JAL flight to Fukuoka. All of this, again, went as smoothly as I think it could have. The only moment that tugged upon my heartstrings was when we boarded the bus, and Aria said to me "we need to go home to Obaachama and Grandpa." I just looked at her with an "awww" face and said we were going to our new home in Japan. I may never know if she was satisfied with that response, but she took it anyway.

We got to the JAL check-in desk with two hours to spare. Then, my muddled speaking abilities and rusty but useful comprehension skills of the Japanese language became critical for the first time on the trip. I was asked where our checked baggage from our Delta flight was. I told the lovely lady at the counter that we did not know we needed to have it. That we were told it would be checked straight through to Fukuoka. She had her manager make a few polite phone calls, then informed me in the kindest voice imaginable, that we were mistaken and it would be necessary for us to get our checked baggage at Terminal 1, then return to Terminal 2 to check in at that time. Our 2 hour advantage was now moot. My husband determined that it was best for Aria and I to stay at behind somewhere near the JAL desk, just in case he could not make it back in time, so we could still board the plane. Off he dashed, to collect all 5 gigantic checked items on his own, and bring them back.

Aria and I waited near a small convenience store near the JAL desk, where for the first time I realized how exhausted I had become. I stared in a sugar plum daydream at the delicious Japanese cakes and sweets and omusubi and beverages I had so missed, nearly fading into a state of slumber. Bless her heart, though, Aria was dancing and singing with all the energy of a... well, a two and a half year old, frankly. Her spirit was the tank of fumes from which I pulled my last few miles. That and a distinct fear of her being kidnapped on my watch. As the quarters of the next pivotal hour ticked by, I wondered whether Aria and I were about to have our Japanese adventure alone after all. But as we migrated nervously to the doorway closest to the shuttle stop, I kept convincing myself this was nothing more than a test of faith. Sure enough, after 55 minutes, my husband stepped off the bus, and onto it again, and off again, and on again, and off once more. He had succesfully acquired our baggage, was given a cart by a courteous airport securit attendant, and rolled in with a grin on his face as he was greeted with an exuberant "Daddy!!" by the ray of sunshine who had been keeping vigilant watch at the window.

Official ticket acquisition was accomplished and we moved in a daze upstairs to our waiting area. The smell of Japanese curry wafted across the lobby into our nostrils, and we chose to give in. Hubby and I shared a bowl of airport curry; defiantly delicious and satisfying in the face of its source and price. My husband said to me something akin to, "If this is how good airport curry is, I can't wait to eat it in a real restaurant." But eating this curry turned out to be a near-dangerous mistake on my part, because within 5 minutes of finishing it I was asleep sitting up with my elbow and knee propped palm as a pillow. I woke up in time to hear the announcement that our plane was boarding, and we headed downstairs to board a bus to get to a plane on the tarmac. The Japanese passengers all showed a mind-bogglingly efficient disorganization as we rushed up the stairs to the plane door. I was reminded at long last of the spectacle that is a Japanese crowd on the move. A stampede with so few victims may never be replicated elsewhere.

Our family slept through the two hour flight to Fukuoka, and woke up reluctantly. Aria, being the most reluctant, was given several adorable, plane-themed trinkets to calm her from the smiling flight attendant. In no time she was gleefully skipping off the plane, airplane keycharm in hand. We collected our baggage, got it all into a taxi by what could be nothing short of an act of God, and were driven to our hotel where we finally made it into our closet of a room at 11:15 local time.

Whether or not this is the appropriate place in my writing for this interjection, I must make a note of the unique sensation that occurred upon my realizing it was 11:15 PM on September 11th, when I had left Oregon on September 10th. We had departed a country where the date September 11th holds a very particular significance. And like so many, for my husband, the date had always been a particularly difficult one to cope with. For as long as I can recall (anytime he was stateside at least), there was always some field of flags or memorial we visited as I tried my hardest not to ask too many questions and just be as supportive and accommodating as possible. Last year, when the 10th anniversary of the attacks came to pass, we marked the occasion with somber gratitude that our year and a half year old daughter had no idea why we were looking at a giant flag on the Norfolk waterfront. She laughed and giggled and bounced on the couch as we adults observed a moment of silence at the exact time the plane hit the first tower. I spent the day moved that so many had given of themselves, often everything, to protect this country where my daughter could smile in the sunshine blissfully unaware. Make it possible for her to have no idea what a "terrorist attack" is, at least not yet. Had our country collapsed as it could have in the wake of what happened on September 11th, 2001... who knows how much sunshine my little girl may have known? She marked the occasion later in the day by walking for the first time. All on her own. From Mommy to Daddy and back again. For both good and painful reasons, September 11th last year was a really really really big deal to us.

But only a year later, 11:15 PM on September 11th, and we realized we had all but missed it. We were in a different country, too exhausted to think or move, with no time or energy to feel heartbreak or joy. I looked at my husband and said "It's September 11th." He said "Yes it is." There was a pause between us, a mutual look of "Huh. How about that?" on our faces. Then I looked to Aria and said with a proud smile, "One year ago today you took your first steps all by yourself." She smiled back. And we went up to our tiny room, to get some much needed and deserved rest.

A short aside on technology here in Japan. The toilets have built in bidets, for both front and back, and with the push of a button my husband managed to thoroughly surprise himself. The shriek from the bathroom was priceless. No matter how many times you are educated or warned about the toilets, the first time is still a shock. The lights in the room could only be activated after the long stick attached to the keychain was inserted into a mysterious wall portal. The beds must have been designed by robots because no human would make a bed that hard. And the air conditioner... we never did figure it out. Needless to say we spent as little time as possible in our sweltering room.

We awoke the next morning and had one of the most delicious "basic buffet breakfasts" a fan of Japanese food could imagine. Miso soup, maze-gohan, omusubi, tamago yaki, tsukemono, sausages, spaghetti mixed with tobiko, a soup bar, coffee, tea, juices. These are the things that are so "normal" to the Japanese, and so astounding to a foreigner. My husband was in seventh heaven, saying "It's like your mom made all the time." If anyone could miss my mother's cooking more than me, it's my husband. I doubt he will ever look at an American hotel continental breakfast the same way again.

We returned to our room and turned on the "terebi" to discover that everything my father told me about Japanese morning shows hardly did the insanity justice. The first news set I saw was a unicorn puke combination of powder blue, bright pinks, yellows and greens with cartoonish white clouds. A panel of at least 7 hosts sat at a desk as one reporter gave her "Happy Labo" report detailing various Italian restaurants in the area, speaking over footage of her eating with obnoxious modesty and decorum (I swear she never even chewed!), and talking about how surprisingly yummy the food was. In the corner of the screen was a cut in live shot of the hosts all watching the video looking thoughtful and engaged, reacting at all the right moments. I could not tell whether I was intrigued or offended by the whole spectacle.

We decided then it was better to spend the morning exploring until our sponsor came to pick us up at noon. We went to the Hakata Station (Hakataguchi Eki) and explored all we could (which turned out to be about 10%) of the giant shopping mall that had been integrated into the station. The madness, to color, the smells and beautiful clothes and seemingly endless supply of food and omiyage everywhere was somewhere between thrilling and thoroughly overwhelming. All I know is that I didn't want to leave, and can't wait to go back someday soon.

We met our sponsor and he kindly drove us to the US Navy base in Sasebo, educating and informing us graciously as we took in the gorgeously lush scenery, awkwardly tried to decipher highway road signs, and allowed the fact we were about to live here sink in even further.

We checked into our hotel room at the Navy Lodge here in Sasebo, and did all we could to get comfortable and established right away. It all proved FINALLY be too much for Aria, who had her first meltdown of the trip. Neither my husband nor I could blame her in the least, and we simply laid with her and tried to soothe her as we told her it was alright to cry if she needed to. She would intermittently stop and sniffle, seeming to calm herself, then suddenly started wailing and sobbing again. I can't be sure, but I would almost put money on the fact everything was sinking in for her at last. We had gone through a ridiculously stressful amount of traveling in a very short period of time. We had entered a world where the language and people and sights and smells and weather were all so different. We were in a room she didn't recognize, asking her to call it "home" as if it were that simple. We had left Obaachama and Grandpa and all her new friends in Oregon behind, and neither Mommy nor Daddy could produce those people on command. EVERYTHING had changed. So many adults might have buckled under such a shift in much less time than she did. And proven far less resilient thereafter. But our amazing little Aria got it out in 20 minutes, and then consoled herself with apple juice and was off to the races again. She saw a big blue slide outside and insisted we go play on it. She delighted herself with the playground, raved about the new white rocks she found, went "fishing" with a big stick she found. She is my new role model when it comes to making the most or the best of being anywhere, anytime, anyhow.

I want to say "I never could have predicted my two year old would be my hero and role model on this trip." But it's not true. I know my Aria, and knew all along she would be the hero in this story. She has been from the day we knew of her existence, and has been every day since. Which is why I know how amazing being here in Sasebo is going to be. Because she is here beside me, taking it in, and showing me how to love it.