It’s a Shinto Thing
Alone in a foreign land with kids, unable to speak the language, I am swept into a whole other unexpected world
This article was featured in the Late Winter 2020 Monadnock Underground Quarterly.
The night before, the luxury had seemed fun. After moving sleeping kids from stroller to pillowtop mattress I had cracked a canned whiskey highball from the minibar, slipped into the provided robe and slipper set, and cranked the a/c against the Tokyo heat. I had raided the pile of goodies in the bathroom, sniffing the conditioner and body lotion, pocketing a sewing kit and a face cleaner pack. After a week of staying in traditional inns consisting of nothing more than tatami and thin futons, even the TV was a novelty. Kurt and I had kept the volume low, flipping through news stations before landing on a bonsai-trimming game show, which we had watched while daydreaming about room service breakfasts.
But then the sun rose, the kids woke, and Kurt went off to the first day of the committee meeting that had brought us to Japan. I was alone with the tasks of packing up and checking out, schlepping luggage while entertaining kids all day, then checking in to the new place. We had chosen another traditional inn for our final week in Japan, dabbling in this world of business luxury only for the one night the ryokan wasn’t available.
I didn’t want to wheel our squeaky stroller down into the lobby full of fountains and suits and ohayoo gozaimasus. I didn’t want to have to talk to anyone and be reminded once more of all the Japanese I had forgotten. I considered cancelling the booking for the new place and just staying here, but I grudgingly realized that continuing on according to plan ultimately meant muddling through fewer conversations.
I started packing the clothes I had tossed off in my hurry to robe myself the night before. I was reminded that I had checked in wearing linen pants with a giant rip hitting right below my left buttcheek, bringing on a new wave of embarrassment. It was bad enough to be totally inept with any language beyond basic niceties, burdened with loud white children, and so unaccountably sweaty. In Japan, I already felt generally quite large and lumbering, wide-hipped and somehow dirty at all times. But then to realize I had actually been wearing ripped and grass-stained pants, my American ass hanging out all over the lobby? I could hardly face myself in the bathroom mirror, much less the staff.
I clicked the TV on and found some cartoons that seemed unlikely to contain permanently-scarring levels of sex or violence, tossed a couple packs of cookies at each kid, and lay on the floor. I broke my fast not with the 2500-yen plate of eggs and toast that I was desperately craving, but cold canned coffee and half-stale squid crackers. They weren’t even the good spicy-mayo-flavored kind.
Eventually, however, I had gathered up the toy-and-wrapper explosion that seemed to trail us across the island of Honshu, and I had a plan. I was going to shove my shame aside, check our bags at the front desk for the day, say arigatoo gozaimasu a hundred times with style and dignity (making sure, just in case, that my clothes were indeed covering all pertinent parts of my anatomy), and do what I do at home when I need to fend off a creeping internal funk: take the kids to the park.
As the kids happily carved out kingdoms in the big sandbox, I wandered around the playground, checking out mamachari-style bikes that had child seats mounted front and back. I spotted the familiar rectangle of a vending machine across and alley and told the kids I’d bring them a peach nectar. As I approached, I saw that there was a wooden parade float or huge wagon with a big drum in the middle parked in the alcove with the machine. Next to it was something that looked like an ornately decorated box. I took a few pictures and dispensed our drinks. The machine even had my favorite Rainbow Mountain Blend Boss Coffee. The day was finally starting to look up.
Not long later, a boom-boom-tuk-tuk-tuk! Boom-boom-tuk-tuk-tuk! rang through the park. Someone was playing the drum, and the kids abandoned the sand to run over and see. An older man, gesturing and smiling, invited us to come across the alley. He played the pattern again and then offered a big stick to us. The kids stared up at me so I played boom-boom-tuk-tuk-tuk! I smiled, bowed, and gave the kids a turn. Arigatoo gozaimasu. That’s all I knew to say, so we headed back to the playground.
We didn’t get far before the older man, joined by two others, called to us. Between the three of them, they managed to say “two o’clock! Two o’clock.” I looked at my watch. 1:45. I nodded, realizing that something was happening with the drum then. “For kids!” someone said, and I nodded again, smiling. “Hai, wakarimasu!” Yes, I understand.
While we waited, the kids and I decided to go look at the fish in the Japanese garden section of the park next to the playground. We had only wandered a few feet out of sight before one of the “two o’clock” group was back, perhaps concerned that I hadn’t understood after all. They gestured for us to come. We watched as they wheeled the drum-wagon out. More people appeared: kids and parents from the park, more adults streaming out of a door next to the vending machine area. Someone motioned for me to lift my kids onto the drum float. Someone put the drumstick into Clover’s hand and she drummed, boom-boom-tuk-tuk-tuk. As far as I could tell, this all seemed to happen spontaneously, and before long the float was loaded with small children and a mix of parents and the adults in charge of this thing proceeded down the alley. Several people pulled a rope, several steered, and everyone but me seemed to know exactly what to do.
This time, though, I didn’t feel awkward or embarrassed, only the warm feeling of welcome and shared celebration.
Parading along a circuit of back alleys and main roads, we stopped when a procession of adults carrying a gilded box crossed our path. My kids shared the drumstick and took turns pulling the wagon. Tokyo was welcoming me, it seemed, dragging me right into the heart of something I couldn’t understand and telling me it was alright to be an outsider. There were still things here for me.
We arrived back and parked the drum-wagon back where we started. Cold green tea was poured for all the adults, bags of treats and candy and apple juice passed out to all the kids. A very old, very thin man, ribs seemingly shoving open the crossed front of the yukata he was wearing, asked where we were from. “The United States,” I said.
“Bring them back to Japan! Bring them back to learn,” he said, staring at Clover, who smiled and twirled. I wanted to ask the very old man what exactly he meant, but another man wanted to practice some English and we exchanged pleasantries. I got up the nerve to ask him what exactly that we had just been a part of.
“It’s seasonal,” he said. “Taking the gods out for a walk.” Now, at last, I found myself ready for another week here, my spirits lifted far above the hotel room floor I had wanted to stay on that morning.
“It’s a Shinto thing. Even being Japanese I really don’t understand it better than that,” he added, laughing. I laughed back.