You Say Goodbye and I Say Hello

Every time you get on a bus, or a train, or for that matter walk into a convenience store in Japan, you will hear a little song created especially for that place or vehicle. The washing machine in our little apartment plays a digital segment (think Wii Music) piece of classical music that I cannot place, though I know it was on one of our Baby Einstein vídeos back in the day. The doorbell (yes our hotel room has a doorbell) plays another electronic chime. The Maibara station plays something suspiciously like the chorus of "Do They Know It’s Christmas?" by BandAid, and "Mary Had a Little Lamb" came over the loudspeaker at Kyoto station once. It’s like everything electronic needs to greet you and say goodbye. 


I still haven’t gotten over the toilets here. In public restrooms, seats are heated and bidet options are on offer. Here in our little apartment, the porcelain throne greets me by lighting up and starting some kind of running water noise to mask any indiscreet sounds. It even has a little sink at the back that I could wash my hands in the running water which would then fill the toilet tank. But there’s no soap there, so.... The light-up toilet is friendly enough but if you need to go during the night it’s a bit more disconcerting. If I was my 6-yr-old self I would consider this toilet possessed by a demon that wants to drag me to the pit of hell. Now I’m like, hey there, you’re ready for me! The huge selection of buttons are more clearly explained in these pictures:

The explanation of the buttons 

tacked on the wall above the keypad

The buttons for the toilet themselves

What Brian's translation app thinks the buttons say

Nijo-jo Castle (the pic really doesn't do it justice,

but you can't take pics inside)

Far less technologically enhanced is the Nijo-jo Castle. It was finished in 1603, and it was the sometime residence of the shogun of the Tokugawa Shogunate. The shogunate returned power to the Emperor in 1867, more than 250 years later. I didn’t really feel like going to the castle yesterday—I can’t say why—but I’m so glad we did. My idea of a castle is ridiculously ornate; while this castle is beautiful, there is something understated and peaceful about it in spite of its majesty. Simple rooms adorned with large murals of natural scenes made me wish I could live there. Plus, I mean, it has a moat.

It is a tad bit chilly though. The shoguns must’ve had some serious base layers. I’ll ask Brian—he read the book “Shogun” about 25 years ago and considers himself an expert. But all good things must come to an end, and now visitors from near and far doff their shoes at the entrance to the palace and rubberneck their way through the loveliness. The murals, as far as I can tell, are continually decomposing and being restored. Nothing gold can stay.

Allison was not so taken by it. She really wonders what takes us so long at these sites. “Just walk faster, it’s not that hard.” Here is how the Quists (minus Natalie) visit a palace. Allison walks through quickly with much heavy sighing (much like I did at her age), then finds a bench to look through her Instagram. I inevitably make some sort of misstep or breach of decorum, and/or I trip over some uneven surface. Brian reads every available sign, all the while thinking that we really should get tickets for the train we will be riding in two days and also making sure I don’t breach decorum or trip over anything. Andrew takes out his camera and distances himself from us, hoping people won’t realize he is with us.

 

Kinkaku-ji (The Golden Pavilion)

Next we visited Kinkaku-ji, also known as the Golden Pavilion, which was first a villa for a rich dude, then a shogun bought it and built the current gorgeous complex. When he died, his son turned it into a Zen Buddhist temple. In 1950 a mentally ill monk burned it down and it was rebuilt six years later.

When you look at these important and lovely historical sites, it becomes obvious how fleeting things are, be they monarchies, powerful families, or even religious sites. 

Now, if you want to know the longest lasting effect of a long-distance move as a child, it is a hatred of saying goodbye. Bad enough to say goodbye at the initial move, but the visits back “home” twice a year and the people from home who visited us left me saying goodbye way too much. Every good time and experience seems so fleeting. I loved to feel all the feels with songs like "Every Time You Go Away," "Missing You," and "I Miss You", you get the picture.

So I totally got it when Natalie confessed to feeling a bit upended by our visit. She only had a few days available to spend with us. Most of her Japan Center for Michigan Universities classmates went home just before Christmas, but due to Kalamazoo College’s trimesters, Natalie is here longer. A friend from K College visited over Christmas and then went home. We showed up. A new group from JCMU showed up this week and some other classmates returned. For someone who has always avoided change, all these comings and goings take a toll.

In the meantime, we have visited with three former exchange students here. Two of them were with us for about three weeks, four years ago, and one was with us for most of a school year seven years ago. They all left their marks on our hearts. So we had a meal with each of them this week, each one a new food experience and an opportunity to find out what they are doing now and a chance to remember some fun times. Then we are back on the street and saying goodbye again. For someone who hates saying goodbye, I seem to continually set myself up for it. We’ve had two foster sons and 18 exchange students of varying lengths of time, (mostly on the shorter side). As a mom, watching these kids move on is just a reminder of how my own children are growing up and moving on.

Tomorrow we will say sayonara to Kyoto and konnichiwa to Tokyo. I don’t know if I will ever be here again, since it’s taken me 51 years to get here. It’s my nature to feel melancholy about leaving people and places, but if the trade-off is to never have them in your life at all, bring on the farewells.