RON DISCOVERS THE SMELLS OF JAPAN AND OFFERS CRITIQUE – 1983

And once again, while searching my mind for inspiration, I unearth a fond memory of our time in Japan. This one of our daughter Ron, who was now 4 years old and as full of life as anyone ever born. She embraced each and every day, head on, much in the manner of her ancestors. Her enthusiasm was unrestrained and her love of adventure was growing with that of her mom’s and dad’s. At 4 years old she was opinionated, funny, precocious and kept us laughing most of the time.

Along the way she made friends of some local girls who lived in the same complex as us. Together they played for hours and seemed to be able to understand each other, somehow. They had developed some form of communication, which worked for them. She learned a little of the Japanese language from these kids. And very likely taught them a bit of English along the way. Although that is not my specific memory, for this post. It was significant in showing the confidence, that she had at this age.

The particular event that I am now describing took place one lazy Saturday morning in the fall of 1983. Not so long after our arrival in Japan. As with each of our weekends, and especially those when we were away from home. We spent our time exploring and experiencing all that we could, of each place we stayed. This day we went to a local “super market”, and super it was. It was housed in a building that covered at least a full square block. It was packed from wall to wall, floor to rafter with anything and everything that you could ever want.

Like I have said before, what they don’t have here, you don’t need. From nuts and bolts, to hardware, building supplies, appliances, and everything else you could possibly need for your home or car or even for your airplane if you had one, was jammed in here. And of course, a huge area dedicated to my favorite pastime, eating local foods and delicacies. I was in heaven. The aromas were exotic and I had visions of wild and beautiful shores, full of unimagined delights. This was a big area, crowded but full of excitement.

As we wandered through this huge, huge maze of strange and fascinating delights, Ron was the focus of attention from the locals. To them she was like a little doll, her big round eyes, her complexion, and her hair were nothing like most of the locals had ever seen up close. She was a curiosity, like a vision from a movie. Everyone wanted to touch her, touch her hair, speak baby talk to her, feel her clothes and generally see if she was, in fact, real. At first she was a little taken aback, but didn’t really mind the attention. Everyone wanted to give her something or treat her to something special.

After a relatively short career as a rockstar, she got pretty impatient with all of the attention. She was starting to ask her mom if we could get out of there now! One last stop I told her, we want to go thru the seafood section and perhaps pick something up for dinner. Reluctantly she agrees, we pass from one area to the next where we encounter an auditorium size hall, stuffed to the gunwales, where everything that swam, crawled, squirmed or otherwise existed in the ocean, was on display. It was overwhelming, never in our lives had we seen so much fresh fish and produce from the sea. Seaweed hung from rafters (much like South African biltong) and the stalls were manned by Japanese women ( I guess the men were out fishing).

The smells in this fresh fish market, left no doubt as to what was being sold within. It was head clearing, to say the least. Anyway, we enter and start to walk the rows, and as we do a small group of women gather around to get a touch and look at the gaijin princess. And a surprise they got, Ron had just got her first lungful of the aroma of this place and instantly unloaded everything, she had eaten the previous few days, onto the floor in front of all of her admirers. And a righteous pile it was. I am not 100% sure, but I think it was a living “critique” of the seafood market. The fish mongers thought it was hilarious and so sweet.

They now had an action figure, in front of them. Mom and I were mortified and looking for a hole to jump into. The women gathered around and in an instant had her little mishap cleaned, all the while bowing to her and patting her hair. “Time to go”, I exclaimed and we split. I am not sure why this memory jumps to the front of my orbital lobe at this particular time, but I do know in later years, Ron’s little sister Ange was accused of being the family “puker”. However I must say Ron seemed to have started the tradition and set the bar for future pukers in the family.