Waking up in the warm futon, the cold air made me resist the idea of ever leaving the blanket burrito. Hunger and thirst are things that push men to move mountains, or that’s what it felt like as I dragged my still half-asleep body onto the Tatami mat. Drinking was an activity I rarely partook in as my dopamine itch was usually filled with a healthy dose of League of Legends. Putting on a new set of clothes I walked downstairs and parted ways with Keyo, making my way to the Storyhouse Cafe.
Walking through the set of sliding double doors the familiar scent of bagels wafted into my nose. The furniture and layout of the renovated ryokan had hints of nostalgia laid into the handcrafted wood finishes. Ghosts of coffee shops from home leaked into my memory, the owner who was busy behind the counter scurried to finish his task.
“Just one second” he said looking over his shoulder as his hands were busy working. “Feel free to take a seat” he said smiling and pointing his head towards the tables. Being extremely early still there was only one old man who sat in the corner quietly drinking his coffee. Sitting at the custom fashioned bench I took the time to carefully observe the large space. Handmade cookies, scones, and small cakes displayed in behind a glass pane were surrounded by children’s drawings and posters advertising various events that took place that were held in the cafe. The artifacts created a lived in feeling that made the entire place exude personality. The walls told human stories that giant chains lacked in favor of conformity.
So . . . Where Are You From
the owner said smiling as he ducked under a small passage way.
“I’m from ‘muric *cough *cough. . . America” my bad habit of saying ‘merica or ‘murican almost slipped out of my mouth. “I actually stayed at the guest house down the street and the owner told me to come here because you speak English.” Chris’s face lit up with excitement when I mentioned the Tabi Shiro.
“Oh Keyo told you to come here, he’s the nicest guy isn’t he? He knows like everyone in town too, and everyone seems to know him.” Chris looked down and pondered for a moment, his brain scanning memories of the Guest House owner. “Anyway here’s the menu today’s special is chocolate chip scones which should be almost ready to take out of the oven in a bit.” Being indecisive it was intimidating to be handed a menu filled with so many choices, but at least this one was in English.
“Take your time he said, as he returned through the little space to continue cleaning dishes and preparing for the day ahead. The menu was strikingly similar to family run cafes I had eaten at in the Pacific Northwest. Upon seeing the bagels I could already taste the chewy semi sweet flavor in my mouth. The addition of bacon, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and some sauce made the decision all that much easier as I gravitated up to the counter to make my order.
I had worn those shoes before
Watching Chris behind the counter reminded me of the first job I had gotten out of college. After all my hard work, struggling, and multiple episodes of suicidal tendencies the only job I could secure was washing dishes. The job had taught me a lot about life and I always keep the family, one I had known from grade school, in the back of my mind. I’m very grateful for the opportunity and the lessons I learned, one of which was to be patient with those in the service industry. Our society doesn’t give those working in the service industry nearly enough credit.
Chris peered over his shoulder and almost in a panic, he scurried to finish the remaining two dishes.
” oh my , sorry didn’t see you there, sorry for the wait” the apology carried through in even his tone.
Enjoying Small Moments
“Take your time dude, it’s all good” the way in which humans scurried about becoming slaves to the tic-toking of their own invention of time perplexed me. I understood that the one thing that was impossible to purchase was time, but you’d have to be a fool to consider time an objective constant. It didn’t feel that way , but much importance is placed on it that we become slaves to the numbers. The faceless digits often take priority over the well-being of other humans.
Was it ironic that I was in the country that placed the most emphasis on both adhering to the status-quo and the invisible force that seemed to rule us all? I find it strange that we as humans never question the system enough, don’t get me wrong it works well enough, but there is much room for improvement. Who determines the minimum amount of hours we need to be at work/school? Or what we teach our naturally curious kids? Kids and parents alike spend their days banging their heads against the wall doing things they don’t enjoy for what?
Going Nowhere In A Hurry
What is the human race hurrying towards? Some of us work so hard doing things we don’t enjoy, we lack time for things that really matter in life. Buy a nice house adorn it with nice furniture, but spend all your time in the office. Buy a nice car only to use it to drive to somewhere you don’t want to be. By the time you buy a sports car you’re too old to drive it like it’s meant to be driven. Let your health slip because you have no time to take care of yourself. Most importantly claim you love your family so you neglect them and work to support them. I had seen what happened to my sister who had a nice paying job, but hated the work she did. The funny thing is that all the research done shows that the system makes workers less efficient. The constant grinding isn’t a good place for serendipity, creativity, and the Eureka effect that the digital age values so much. What I wanted was far from the status-quo.
What l seeked was freedom, the freedom to go where I wanted, when I wanted. The freedom to work when I chose to, it had always bothered me that our society places more emphasis on when work is done and the hours spent doing said task rather than the amount of work accomplished and the efficiency in the way it was done. Because it was a holiday I had the ability to enjoy the moment, simply being in the present and watching. As an aspiring artist and animator taking the time to watch someone do something as simple as washing dishes is interesting.
Alan Watts
Now, there is a possibility, an extraordinarily skillful painter, or even photographer, of presenting the dirty ashtray in a way so that everybody else will see almost what you saw in it. But, you will have to have a technique which will translate every grain of ash into a jewel. Because that’s what you actually saw. But that requires mastery of an art.
As an artist, sound designer, author, and director in the movie called my life; my brain is always thinking of ways I can use things I see and hear everyday in the creations in my mind. Unknown to Chris, in my mind I’d imagined him as different characters. How would a confident, arrogant, experienced boy wash the dishes differently than a shy, timid, nervous newcomer? What camera angles would you show? What sounds are being played? The world only ceases to be amazing because we forget the treasure was never hidden in some chest. The gold was sprinkled around us this whole time.
After ordering
my food and taking a seat I had more time to observe, this time looking at the cozy, but spacious cafe. In the front were two sets of sliding doors, to the left was the kitchen , to the right were two tables. Further into the cafe stood a wall with posters advertising various events across from that was an area that held musical instruments. In the back was a small area designated for kids to play. I looked at the acoustic guitar and longed to touch it, only being weeks since I’ve played, it hadn’t occurred to me that having a guitar was such a luxury. You never notice the small pleasures in life until they’re absent
“You can play guitar?” the question came out like word vomit.
“Yeah a little bit I’m more of a drummer, used to be in a band actually, what about you?” being asked about myself caught me by complete surprise. I stopped to think about my response, what to say here. . . I took a second to look down at my hands. The fingers on my left hand were padded with callouses around the top.
” I play a little, I’m not a real musician though” I thought back to the time a ska band saxophone player called me not real because I never got paid to play out. I’d never been so insulted in my life(now I’ve been working like hell to make him eat his words one day). In a way he was right, although I faced my fears and performed at open mics, in my ten plus years of playing I couldn’t read music or tell you where notes were on the fretboard.
“You can play it you know, that’s what it’s there for.” Chris continued to make preparations behind the counter. So I walked up to the guitar and began playing some songs I knew, it was weird how muscle memory worked. When I didn’t think about it I could play and sing, but the second I thought Hey I’m doing it was when I’d make a mistake. Chris sang along to some of the songs as I delicately touched the strings with my fingers, forgoing a pick. The interesting tones you can get with a guitar are much more than what notes you chose to play. If notes were words then how you played them was your tone of voice. Something that I had recently learned was the way something was spoken, changed what was really being said.
When My Food was Ready
the guitar was placed back into its holder and I took a moment to enjoy the simple pleasure of eating. “Where in America are you from by the way?” Chris asked as he served me my hot tea.
“I’m from Washington, well the rainy one, Seattle really” after saying that chris froze in place for a little.
“Ah that’s where I lived for a little, when I was doing the whole band thing. I’m actually from Tacoma, but I lived in seattle when I was pursuing the music thing.” upon hearing the word Tacoma it was my turn to freeze. I had a deep love and pride of my hometown, my love for it was much bigger than the larger cities of seattle and Bellevue. To travel halfway around the world and meet someone from the same small city as me made me comfortable enough to really start talking(a rare occurrence for me).
“I’m actually from the same city. . . I just say Seattle because it’s more recognizable than Tacoma. It’s super cool that you were in a band actually playing shows. . . how did you end up out here?”. Chris went on to explain how he initially was teaching english, hitchhiked all over Japan, and eventually how he and his wife moved to Matsumoto because it was a nice city to live in. I was captured by the story of his life, which sounded so much more adventurous compared to mine.
Kurt Cobain is a big hero to me, he lived under a bridge and was homeless before having a girlfriend because he believed in his music dream. I’ve always wanted to become a musician, but at least Chris tried to pursue that dream. Not only that but Chris ran his own business and still continued to make music a part of his life. I was really glad to meet him because he was someone who was making a living doing something other than teaching english, which was the step I wanted to take after being an ALT.
After finishing my meal, I said bye to Chris and took steps towards living in my own apartment.
