My Crazy Week As A Tourist In Japan

This is the day that I notice that a) public bathrooms are plentiful and clean, with bidet-style waterspouts for cleaning your derriere; and b) rather than paper towels or air-dryers, Japanese carry small towels, tenugui, to dry their hands. I duck into a convenience store and buy two tenugui so I can both stop wiping my palms on my jeans and clean up after a Snoopy-snack.

Mom, Day Three: Cementing my title of Mom of the Year, I arrive at my son’s still-empty apartment by 9 the next morning, carrying two tuna mayo onigiri, a paperback and an extra sweatshirt to ball up as a pillow. I spend all day there, waiting for a) a furniture delivery, b) the gas company; and c) a furniture assembly dude while my son … takes classes.

The most interesting part of my day was talking to the service people who came to the apartment.

If you, like I, are of a certain age, you may remember traveling to places where you didn’t know the language and pantomimed your needs to bemused strangers. While not always effective, I remember those challenges fondly. Google Translate makes my acting skills obsolete. While I mourn the passing of those (sometimes ridiculous) old exchanges, the app does facilitate meaningful conversations, despite no shared language. The young man assembling the furniture taps at his phone to question me about the White House. The woman behind me at the supermarket checkout is tickled pink that I’m stocking my son’s pantry; she has a daughter, and we share a translated moan about under-appreciation.

(Author’s note: my son swung by the apartment later that day. He was, in fact, quite appreciative of my efforts.)

Tourist, Day Four: Tokyo’s digital art game is solid. I spend the afternoon in teamLab’s Borderless, an immersive museum where the digital art meanders from room to room.

Amidst light fragrances and a cinematic soundtrack, brilliant butterflies flutter amid massive sunflowers, and ghostly, human-sized frogs wave folded fans. The artwork is so beautiful I pull out my tenugui to wipe away a tear.

Mom, Last Day: In an odd twist of fate, my ex-husband is in Tokyo for business at the tail end of my visit, which is also my son’s move-in day. The three of us meet in the mostly-furnished apartment. My son programs his new TV, my ex wrestles a comforter into a duvet cover, and I give the floor one final sweep.

A few hours later, my ex leaves, and I stand in my son’s doorway for one last moment. “Sayonara,” I say, reaching out for a hug. He hugs me back. “No one actually says ‘sayonara,’ Mom. Try jaa ne.” “Jaa ne,” I mumble.

My pronunciation has him rolling his eyes, a gesture so familiar I have to smile. On that cheery note, I jingle the coins I’ve saved for the subway, and head toward my flight back home.