CAKE | 05 — Hydrangeas

As I was sitting next to her at the greasy wooden table with a rotating top, drinking lukewarm green tea and trying not to pass out, I wondered if she could read my face. I was trying very hard to appear composed. Delighted even. Dug out my most socially pleasing expression. But the smell of urine and the lack of air in the house not only made me sweat profusely, I was desperately trying to prevent myself from losing consciousness and dropping to the floor like a bag of cat litter. 

The first time I visited Japan I scheduled a lunch with a Japanese woman whom I have never met before. An organization matched tourists like me with locals to offer us an allegedly authentic experience and for Japanese to meet people from different cultural backgrounds. My host Mari would pick me up at a train station southeast of Tokyo and we would drive together to her house where she would serve me a traditional Japanese meal. I was so excited that I got there an hour early. As the city is seemingly all-enveloping the trip from my airbnb to Mari took over an hour and four trains. All I knew about Mari was that she ran marathons, gave baking classes and liked to travel by herself at least once a year. Having read a little about Japan, this information immediately intrigued me. Married Japanese women tend not to solo travel the world. I was stoked to meet her.

I saw her smile before I saw her. It was wide and inviting. She had a school girl's hair cut complete with bangs and a bob. And she seemed tiny. We have stayed in touch since then, seen each other three times and by now I consider her a friend but I still have no idea how old she actually is. Possibly in her 50s. But I wouldn't be surprised if she told me she was 68. Mari whisked me away from the train station and into her compact car in a polite and efficient way only Japanese seem to master. I didn't feel rushed. I was eager to please. Her house was the first Japanese home I have ever entered and its European decor surprised me. I felt weirdly at home. When I was so clearly not. Mari prepared a lunch consisting of various small dishes presented on small plates and bowls of different designs; each more delicious than the other. Even the rice ball tasted better than any rice I have ever had. I helped her with preparing the tempura vegetables as we talked about Hamburg and Tokyo and her fascination with everything Europe. She was as thrilled to meet me as I was to meet her. And despite our very different lives strangely we instantly connected. We spent over four hours together and I left with as big a smile on my face as Mari's. 

For my second time in Japan I set up one lunch and one dinner date. I was intent to repeat my first experience and was matched with three different hosts I could chose from. I immediately fell in love with Masuaki and Masayo, an elderly couple in their late seventies who seemingly enjoy hiking. Their profile photo showed them in the woods smiling broadly into the camera. As if they were waiting for me to join them. I am a sucker for grandparents. I couldn't wait to meet them and happily accepted their invitation to dinner. I declined the invitation by a stay-at-home mom of a college-age girl currently studying in Europe. But for some reason I could not bring myself to do the same with Miki's invitation to lunch. With my enthusiasm for septuagenarians slowly subsiding, I found myself drawn to her message. She was in her late forties, single, living alone, working as a waitress and she was an avid reader. Hers was a story I wanted to hear. I accepted her invitation and we started writing each other. I liked her takes on international politics, on children's education and racism. She wrote openly of her depression and I admired her honesty. She told me about the beautiful blue hydrangea growing in front of her house. We exchanged photos and book recommendations. She said to read Sakyo Komatsus Japan Sinks, a novel from the seventies about, well, Japan sinking. According to Miki the book shook the country and is widely read in schools. The danger of seismic disaster has always been looming over the archipelago but it has also been mostly disregarded by the public and the government. I love natural disaster literature and despite its sexism, not to mention an inexplicable sex scene at a crater lake, I devoured this book. I was looking forward to Miki's emails and I felt like I knew Miki long before I was to meet her.

Sadly I lost my grandparents. A few weeks before my trip to Tokyo Masayo sent me an email informing me that her husband unexpectedly collapsed on a street in their neighborhood and passed away. Unfortunately she had to cancel their invitation to dinner. Her humility and her unsentimental yet heartfelt message moved me to tears. I sent her my condolences and she reassured me that Masuaki didn't feel any pain and died quickly and peacefully. I would never meet my Japanese grandparents after all. Now I was even more looking forward to finally visit Miki.

The woman waiting for me in front of the conbini was wearing a tan safari hat and holding up a sign with the name of the organization that brought us together. She was shorter than I imagined, had a full day pack on her shoulders and appeared very determined and diligent, yet strangely distant. She would not look me in the eyes and even though she smiled, her smiles were not easily given. They seemed pained. But she had a quick step. With her backpack, her utility jacket, the hat and her urgent stride, it was as if she hurried so we would get through the concrete jungle quickly and arrive at her house safely. She exhibited an oddly displaced purpose. It was hot and humid that day with heat enveloping every street corner and radiating from the pavement and with the sun reflecting off the buildings. I realized then that I haven't had enough to drink that morning. I was thirsty and actually had a hard time keeping up with her. 

I am not sure how many cups of her green tea I drank. It was what sustained me in the two hours at her home. My body writhed from thirst. My excitement over meeting her evaporated as soon as we entered her house and a sadness set in that remained with me until late that night. Her house was a traditional Japanese home, located on an old narrow pedestrian street in a cul-de-sac. Coming towards it you could only see the massive hydrangea covering the whole front. We had to crouch to walk past it. The house used to belong to her parents who she said had moved up north. Time stood still in it. It was like entering 1973. And it smelled like cat urine. A pungent and dense stench swaddled me. But there was no cat. It had died seven years ago, she said. I wondered if she was aware of the house's condition, the filth and grease covering every surface and nook. I gave her the gifts I had brought with me and helped her prepare a dish in the kitchen. Like every other room in the house it was devoid of care, with worn out handles, moldy cupboards and a dirty sink. She was frying meat and it felt like the oil was sucking out any remaining oxygen in the room. I don't know if she saw the layer of dust covering almost everything she didn't touch on a daily basis. Or if she felt the lack of air. All the windows were shut and it felt hotter inside than outside. I was feeling dizzy and making light conversation. There was a small fan in one corner but it was so slow it seemed like it was cutting through the air. The top of the small fridge in the living room was covered with big old plastic bottles filled with water. There must have been at least fifteen of them lined up. An emergency stash in case of an earthquake? I asked for another cup of tea. She poured it from a grey plastic teapot that has seen better days. Everything in this house felt past its point of purpose.

I don't remember how I got through the lunch. I had to force myself to eat it so to not hurt her feelings. She clearly put a lot of effort into preparing it. Even printed out a menu. But just like the house, the food looked musty. It was drained of any freshness or color - and of taste. The meatball lingered in my mouth until I couldn't keep it there any longer and finally swallowed. While my head was spinning and my heart sinking, we talked. I did my best not to show how shocked I was that somebody as intellectually interesting as her can live in such squalor. I knew she was destitute. But this had nothing to do with poverty. She has given up and was hanging on by a thread. And I didn't know what else to do but to drink tea.

When we were walking back to the station, she said that she would like to move to Europe for a year. She always wanted to live abroad. She asked if we could video chat on Line once a week. She wanted to improve her English. And she would help me study Japanese. Definitely, I said. Happy to be breathing fresh air. 

I have sent Miki a few messages but have never heard back from her again. I don't know what to make of it. Hopefully I have left something good behind. I am grateful to her for letting me in. For giving me a glimpse into her life. I hope she hangs on to it. I hope she waters the hydrangeas. They were magnificent.