Driving in the Fast Lane

My dog ate my blog? No one I know would believe that excuse.

How about this one? I was so busy talking to Weather Explorer and my back seat passengers -- two newcomers we'll call Daffy and Sunshine - on the way home from a shrine sale that I didn't realize I had entered one of those Electronic Toll Card (ETC) lanes until I stuck my toll ticket and a fistful of yen out the window and nobody was there. Not just no cashier but no cashier booth. Uh-oh.

Since I don't own one of those magic cards that signal "Open, Sesame" to the gates, I could not go forward. Due to (a) the half dozen cars lined up (patiently) behind me and (b) the nefarious tire shredders, I could not back up.

What happens when one commits a traffic faux pas in a foreign country?  In my case, a spry octagenarian toll road worker responded to my quasi-bilingual SOS ("Sumimasen!  Help me, please, I mean kudasai!  I made a mistake.  I am so sorry, I mean gomen nasai!  Sumimasen?  Is anyone there?  I do not know what to do!  I hope you can hear me over the laughter thundering from those rude ladies in my car.  I do not know who they are!  If they are American, I am French, n'est-ce pas?")

The spry octagenarian toll road worker, let's call him Mighty Mouse, emerged from a tunnel beside my car.  He waved his arms and all the cars lined up behind mine - poof! - disappeared.  Then Mighty Mouse shut a gate behind the car.  I am reasonably certain that the sign on the traffic side of the gate read:  Use a Different Lane as This One is Temporarily Blocked by a Stupid Gaijin.

I'll be Windexing my rear window as soon as I post this.

Relieving me of my toll ticket and yen, Might Mouse disappeared into that tunnel and returned moments later to present my change, bow politely, and open the gate.

Am I missing anything?  A minor detail perhaps but I'm pretty sure the monologue that was tripping off my tongue as we were approaching that bank of toll booths went something like this:

"Daffy and Sunshine, I don't like to brag (!) but you probably could not have chosen a better driver for your first big adventure in Japan.  Why, just yesterday I renewed my license to drive in Japan by acing a 50-question written test.  I have now managed to pass that test twice as many times as any other American you will meet in Japan because they all remember to renew their license before the expiration date."

Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sack of No Something Street?

Today's photo credit belongs to Weather Explorer.




She has an eye for interesting street signs whereas I tend to fixate on deciphering the traffic signals when I'm approaching an intersection like this one. This is what makes her a good navigator and me a reasonably passable international driver. Knock on wood.

The red light on top says "Do not even think about driving through this intersection" and the green arrow on the bottom says ". . . unless, of course, you wish to turn right, in which case you should make it snappy."

Mashiko: Taking the Show on the Road

As my year of ushering, shooing, and cajoling the Oakleaf Explorers draws to an end, I'm concentrating less on exposing newcomers to the various splendors of our host nation and spending more time helping the veterans squeeze in one or two more adventures before they move back to the United States later this spring.

Jen O wanted to visit Mashiko, the pottery town about two and a half hours north of Tokyo. My car's tires are too bald to support such an ambitious undertaking so I reserved a van through the base car rental agency while Jen engaged in the sort of complicated childcare arrangements that can only be comprehended by a mother of three with a husband at sea. We put the date and location on the Explorers' calendar and about three hours later I trudged back to the car rental agency to reserve a second van and started lining up additional drivers for what was fast becoming a major production.

And so this is how I found myself behind the wheel of a 7-passenger van on a highway skirting Tokyo on the morning, and then again in the afternoon, of the last day of March. Mike has always handled the driving to and from Narita Airport so this was my maiden voyage in Tokyo traffic. Fortunately, I was so busy laughing that I forgot to be nervous.

What was so funny? Well, my two navigators were quibbling over directions before we even exited the base. They finally settled on a route that sounded an awful lot like a game of Bingo to me: Yoko-Yoko tollroad to Shuto B to C-2 to S-1 to Tohoku Expressway. Gosh, I'm glad we got that settled. Just tell me when to turn.

Then a serious case of map envy set in. Jen O had brought along a map that every other woman in the van was absolutely, positively, dead certain possession thereof would contribute to a vastly improved quality of life. It was reminiscent of a slumber party in late December 1962 when Susie showed up clutching her new Barbie. In this case, the accommodating - more accommodating than Susie by a long shot - Jen O indulged their fantasies by trolling for "chizu Tokyo" at every toll booth within a 100-mile radius of Tokyo. (I stopped looking in my rearview mirror after the first toll booth when I spotted the guy two cars back flexing his hands and trying to remember which finger means "Stop holding up traffic!" in English sign language.)

Most of you have been to Mashiko with me twice already so I won't bore you with the shopping details. One thing that bears mention, however, was our visit to Daisei Gama studio, the only remaining studio that exclusively fires their pottery in a traditional wood burning kiln. Jane had arranged for us to see the Noborigama (climbing kiln) behind the studio and I was pleasantly surprised upon our arrival to find myself at the studio where I had made my first pottery purchase in the fall of 2006. It's a tiny little vase, all I could afford then and still.

Because we were on a tight schedule, we limited our potty breaks to one in each direction. "Do not under any circumstances enter any door other than the one leading to the restroom!" With handy signs like the one above to guide the bladder-challenged and/or pregnant passengers, there was no excuse for wandering into a convenience store or gift shop.

But my favorite sign by far is the one hanging inside many truckstop restrooms, letting customers know at a glance which cubicles are occupied and which are available. This is the first time I've seen a symbol for ostomates.

Beach-Combing in January

There's a 12-year old American girl here who reminds me more than a bit of Katie at that age: blonde, bespectacled, and bookishly quiet. She heard there is a beach across the Miura Peninsula from us where glass shards and pottery sherds (thanks, Kate) wash up on the tide.

I'd been to this beach a couple of years back so I agreed to try to find it for her and her mom. This is how I came to spend the better part of Saturday driving up and down narrow little lanes, backing slowly out of dead-end beach access roads, and being excruciatingly careful to keep my wheels aligned on rusty metal planks strewn precariously across muddy culverts. "Allow me to demonstrate a Y-turn, my dear."

The tide was in by the time we finally found the sheltered cove in question but there were still a few yards of beach to comb so we did not come home empty-handed (see left). The correct route is now etched in my memory so I hope someone else will want to collect shards and sherds soon. In the meantime, I think I'll try my hand at creating a mosaic something-or-other.

Driving After Dark

Night falls here like a guy whose parachute failed to open.

If you happen to be cruising Yokosuka neighborhoods when the sun races over the horizon, the rubbing noises coming from the direction of your car trunk might start to sound an awful lot like lug nuts caught in the act of stripping. And that, of course, could easily distract you from noticing you are entering a one-way street from the wrong direction or heading down a narrow winding lane that dead ends abruptly at the edge of a precipice affording what is probably a breath-taking view of Tokyo Bay, a view you are unable to appreciate because you are too concerned with steering your car in reverse back up to the intersection 100 yards behind and above you without scraping against the houses or bumping into the chains the homeowners have strung across their tiny carport entrances to dash any hope of executing a Y turn you might have been harboring.

There are people who complain about how much it costs to live in Japan. I'm going to invite them to ride along with me the next time it's my turn to deliver a meal to a family with a new baby. I do believe I might have invented the cheapest thrill in Asia. People who refuse to leave the house without their cellphone have no idea how exciting life can be.

It's Yamato Flea Market Day!

Have I mentioned I'm coordinating daytrips for the Oakleaf Club this year? We're called the Explorers and you don't have to be a medical spouse to tag along. Everyone is welcome, including you.

Today is the third Saturday of the month so we explored the monthly flea market at Yamato train station 36 miles west of Yokosuka. In Japan it takes about an hour to drive 36 miles.

We left the base at 6:30 am with me behind the wheel of a rental van. How's that for a scary thought? But it was either rent a van or remove all those bags marked "thrift shop" from the trunk of my car. I chose the path of least resistance.

We bought buttons, spindles, spools, a wooden box, an obi, and a reversible indigo jacket. The bakery adjacent to the train station offered a tempting assortment of snacks.

We were home by noon. Even though I left the directions on the kitchen counter for the second time in a week, we did not get lost. There seems to be a kernel of truth in that kinetic memory concept I fabulated the other day.

If you are thinking of visiting us while we're living in Japan, try to schedule your trip to overlap a third Saturday of the month so we can take you to the Yamato flea market.

Chicken Pie: So Far, So Good

Days don't get much more perfect than this one. Japanese book club, a hungry family with a new baby girl, and my first solo turn behind the wheel outside the base made for one thrill after another. It was such a perfect day, in fact, that I didn't even complain (audibly) when I found the convenient Daiei Gate closed for Columbus Day and had to trudge all the way to the Main Gate and back around.

Kyoko and Tsuneko had a lot to say about The Help - they both liked Minny, the sassy maid character, best - and I had worried needlessly that they would not be able to cope with all the Southern dialect in the book. Kyoko filled us in on her expenses-paid trip to Beijing with the other four ladies who are translating a book about an American doctor who spent most of his life in China. Tsuneko continues to worry that her German-Japanese granddaughter (11) is losing her Japanese language skills. Tsuneko's other daughter is married to a Jewish man from New York City; they live in Thailand these days. I, of course, shared happy memories of my Aunt Chris who was about the same age as Kyoko. They especially liked the Stuck on Ganson Hill story and I am indebted to Sandy for reminding me of it.

Pleading homework (snort), Matt declined to ride with me to deliver a chicken pie to a young Seventh Fleet family that lives in a residential neighborhood in Zushi, about 20 minutes from the base. I left the house in a slight huff. Halfway to the gate I realized the directions and telephone number were sitting on the kitchen counter. Double back? Not in my genetic code. Fortunately, I tapped into my kinetic memory gene and pieced together the directions by recalling how the ink flowed from my pen when I transcribed key words from the computer to an index card.

The fact that I made it there and back without incident has a lot more to do with the general politeness of Japanese drivers than any particular skill on my part. Stuck behind a bus? Flick that blinker and drivers in the other lane miraculously let you merge. I also credit my mantra ("You are not home YET") which I chanted aloud to drown out the potentially unlucky "so far, so good" my subconscious simply would not stop whispering.

The trick to driving in Japan -- you'll want to write this down because I am now an expert -- is to remain centered in your lane. My only two close calls happened when a motorcycle zipped past me on the left, in the centimeter of concrete between my car and the curb. To make room for any subsequent curb-hugging motorcycles, I started edging my wheels to the right just as a motorcycle came zooming around my right rear bumper. After this happened twice in less than three blocks, staying centered in my lane seemed the best plan.

If Mimi can guarantee me three passengers willing to harmonize "You are not home YET," I told her she can count on me to help ferry lunch bunchers to the Chinese restaurant in Kamakura the day after tomorrow.

The Exciting Version

We have wheels, a $400 1992 Toyota something-or-other. The "Exciting Version" no less, which I'm hoping doesn't have anything to do with the fact that there's only one key. "Um, honey, did you happen to take the car key with you on deployment?"



We bought the car from Jimmy Bradley. Since his promotion to Captain (an 06 in Navy rating parlance) occurred on August 1, I insisted on giving him a guided tour of all the 06 parking spots on base before taking possession of the paint-challenged jalopy. Then I let him take me to Starbucks because, much to my amazement, Jimmy has not set foot in Starbucks since arriving in Japan four years ago.

Perhaps I heard him wrong. It would not be the first time. He has a voice that reminds me of Isaac Hayes on the "Live at the Sahara Tahoe" album so sometimes my mind starts drifting back to my college days when he's talking.



He will fly to Virginia in the next 36 hours to re-connect with Melissa and the boys. We wish them "Fair Winds and Following Seas." That's Navy for "Good Luck, Best Wishes, and Have a Happy Life."

Now I'm going to mosey on over to the Autoport for a couple of those "new driver" decals. Mike says I should splurge on a butterfly decal while I'm there. Apparently the butterfly decal will inform other drivers that I can't hear a darn thing so don't bother honking at me. Nice concept.