January 22
The day began early, and the day would be long. For it was today that we would re-cross the International Date Line, that we would travel back in time and regain the day we had lost when coming west to the East. The day began with an early breakfast, at which I felt fairly well rested for I had gone to bed at a decent hour the night before, exhausted and relaxed at all my responsibilities being accounted for. All responsibilities, that is, save one: packing. But after breakfast, which proceeded at a leisurely pace, as if even the waiters and waitresses of the Emporium were loathe to see us go, no matter how strange some of our orders (potatoes with salsa come to mind, lone cherries with stems as well) were. In any case, in what seemed a long while, or perhaps the blink of an eye, breakfast was over and we parted ways to finish packing. I went up to my room and wrestled with my luggage, stuffing things into whatever bag I could find in a most inelegant fashion -- as long as everything got back safe and sound, and in one piece -- I would be glad. I finished sooner than I originally anticipated and called home. Talking with Mom and Dad, I realized the logic of using this modern invention known as a cart to transport heavy bags around. Thus, after receiving a phone call from the "Princess" that she needed someone to "sit on her luggage" so she could close it (her own featherweight not being nearly enough), I went down and looked for a cart.
I found one, and a gracious bellman offered to bring it up for me. I said I could handle it if necessary, but he replied with the simple yet efficient, "It is my job, sir." In any case, bellman, cart and I ascended the elevator to my room, where we procured my luggage and stashed it on the cart. Then down we went, two floors, and knocked. And lo, the door opened and soon enough Debra's luggage was stashed and stocked on the cart as well. The three of us, plus our good cart, took the elevator down once again, and there unloaded our baggage by some couches in sunlight. We also checked out and converted our remaining yen into dollars. Then, as we yet had about 3 hours ere we would leave the New Sanno, we sat and typed our journals using our mobile keyboards on our PDAs. Soon enough, however, we attracted the attention of a pair of tourists from Taiwan, one of whom had only read about such keyboards. We spoke with them a moment, at times in English, and at times Debra would speak Chinese. They thanked us and apologized for the trouble, which of course there was none. We typed and talked and then typed some more before Mrs. Medlin and Mrs. Mizoguchi appeared and then, at 12:30 Tokyo time, we all gathered up our belongings and piled into the van, setting out for Narita Airport, a 40 minute drive away.
Traffic was not particularly heavy, but by my Midwestern standards, it did not qualify as light either. We made good time, taking in the scenic view of Tokyo in the sunlight of high noon. As we crossed a bridge, we looked east and saw factories and smokestacks, but then we turned our gazes west and saw skyscrapers rising up to the sky with windows glittering like the many faces of jewels. We continued to drive, stopping by a rest area of sorts to seek for a Yomiuri Shimbun, the day's edition of which was said to have an article about the events of the 21st. Our first try did not yield a paper, but we found one our second. The entire article was in Kanji, so I could not understand much -- not even my own name, alas. Even so, it brought a smile to our faces.
Making good time, we arrived at Narita, where Mrs. Mizoguchi proposed we take a last lunch together. Unwilling to part our company, to break our fellowship, so to speak, we agreed, leaving behind our heavy bags and luggage and going into a terminal to seek out foodstuffs. We ate and talked, and laughed, though in all of our eyes there was the look of friends who know that the hour of parting draws near and yet wish it would not be so. After our last true Japanese meal, we went back to the van and grabbed our luggage, rolling it up to the gate and security guard. There, we parted with Mrs. Mizoguchi. She gave us parting gifts of chocolates with almonds and waved goodbye and then, all too quickly, she was off. We were now but three, the same that had set out from Chicago a seemingly distant fortnight before.
We checked our bags, and as no doubt I appeared suspicious in my black leather trench coat and black fedora, I was the lucky recipient of a random bag check. When my bag was opened and peered through with a cautious eye, perhaps the most shocked reaction came from Debra. She gasped at the rather disorderly way I had packed, for no doubt she had packed and folded everything with the utmost care. Still, I was packed, or had been, but soon was again, for working with the kind man who had checked my bag, we managed to close it again and lock it down. I then went to the desks and checked in my bags, glad to be rid of their weight, albeit a bit anxious that I would see them again stateside.
We passed into the Terminal area, now with just our backpacks and wandered over to our gate. There, we camped out a spot, which Mrs. Medlin graciously agreed to hold, provided we would seek out a Starbucks or similar source of coffee in our wanderings. We agreed, and strolled around the airport. Debra bought some new headphones, for the ones that had come with our CD walkmans were not the world's most comfortable (neither of us likes the inside-ear style headphones). I, noticing a new flavor of Mentos I had not seen stateside, decided to give grape a try. We explored the length of our little concourse and then crossed the length over to the next, pondering at the profusion of makeup displays that filled the space in between. We found coffee and later, even better, ice cream -- and headed back to Mrs. Medlin, prizes in hand. We then sat and talked a bit, and soon a small child, quite young, wandered over and played with us. Her mother watched her from a distance, before coming over as well. Debra and the child played tug of war with Debra's hairbrush (which seemed rather huge in the tiny hands of the child) and I showed the little girl the workings of my digital camera. She even figured out how to zoom in on photos, though she especially liked the one close up I had taken of her. Time flowed away like grains of sand held by a hand underneath rushing waves, and soon, it was time to board. We stood in line, boarding passes and passports in hand. Mrs. Medlin, knowing that she did not have an aisle seat, joked that she would give us a signal for us to start "acting up" as little children so that she could perhaps transfer to a closer seat to start watching the "youngsters." Debra and I immediately began practicing, looking at each other and whining, "She's looking at me" and such. A man nearby, wearing a Hawaiian hat, asked, "Isn't that a good thing?" prompting us to laugh. It seemed that everyone assumed that we were some sort of couple, when in fact we were a couple of good friends traveling in a foreign land. But in any case, the line moved quickly, another tribute to Japanese efficiency, and soon enough we boarded the airplane, taking up the seats that would be ours for the next twelve hours or so.
After a shaky takeoff, replete with plenty of turbulence, we were soon aloft and leaving Japan. As soon as the carts began to roll for dinner, however, the turbulence returned, prompting a slight delay with that meal. Not that we minded waiting a bit longer to see the various interesting processings that the airline had come up with this time. When dinner finally did arrive -- almost precisely when I had pulled out my Palm and keyboard to begin to type -- we ate quickly. It seemed that food only came when we had something electronic out, ready to be spilled on, or when there was such turbulence that food would have a roller coaster ride inside our stomachs. While Debra napped, I typed a bit more, before, somewhere six or seven hours in the flight (this time through perpetual night -- we took off at sundown in Japan), succumbing to sleep as well. I slept for two hours or so, before waking to the noise of carts bustling by. Landing was now not far off and the end of the trip could almost be descried. A second dinner arrived, which we poked at and ate with little relish, for our minds were elsewhere. Finally, we began our descent, which was thankfully very smooth. And soon enough, indeed faster than any of us thought it would or could, the wheels of the plane touched down on a runway of Chicago O'Hare and we were home.
Herded like sheep, we de-boarded the plane, making sure to gather our belongings. While deplaning, we called home and let family know that we were now safe on the ground in the United States of America. We made our way to customs, a long, brisk walk from our arrival gate. We checked our passports and visas, and then waiting to grab our baggage -- which we would immediately recheck in but a little ways later. It felt good to be back in America, in this great country on this little planet. It was good to see so many different faces, all colors and shapes, each waiting and seeking luggage with precious cargo filled with special meaning. This was the United States of America, united not in spite of, but because of our wonderful differences.
We wheeled our luggage up and checked it back in, sending it forth to our final destinations, Raleigh, Kalamazoo and San Antonio. Noticing that some of the luggage attendants spoke Polish, I told them Thank You in Polish, bringing a smile to their faces, along with a good many surprised expressions. Finally, we moved out to the train station that connects the various terminals of O'Hare together. There, we asked a kind lady officer to snap our "after" photo to parallel the "before" photo that we had taken so very long ago, but a blink in the memories of time. And the photo was taken; we boarded the train. Soon enough, it rolled around -- nowhere near as stable nor steady nor comfortable as the Japanese Shinkasen, but with an American grit and strength -- it rolled around to Terminal 2, where Mrs. Medlin and I would disembark while Debra went on to Terminal 1. We hugged, waved and then parted. Waving my fedora as the train rolled away, I called, "Here's looking at you, kid," quoting Casablanca without having ever seen the whole movie, yet the line somehow fit. And then the train was gone and part of the trip forever was assigned to memory. Mrs. Medlin and I walked to our gates, pondering and thinking while speaking of the small things we noticed, such as the need to check our carry-on luggage once again, which essentially required an "electronics striptease" for me as I removed all my various electronics.
In no time at all, in but a few steps out of the millions I have taken all my life, I was at gate F4, and with a hug and a wave was alone, heading home. I found a comfy seat in the gate area, snapped a photo of the plane that would bear me back to Kalamazoo, back home, and then sat and typed, musing.
An hour rolled by; soon the plane would be boarding. Feeling warm, and knowing that the small lake-hopper plane would only be warmer, I went in search of some sort of ice cream, all the while remembering my last bit of ice cream, on the other side of the world. I found a McDonald's not far away, and ordered from a bright, cheery young man. I guess I resonated his good cheer, and was quite jolly by the time I left, sundae in hand. The cash register said, "Have a blessed day," and that was we wished each other -- and that was what I realized I had, today and everyday, if I would only choose to see.
Back at the gate, the plane was boarding, via Stairway C, a tiny door leading down onto the cement of the runway. I quickly showed my boarding pass and passport and, after a staircase too short for memory, was on the windy runway. My hat nearly blew off, but I held it down and soon boarded. Then, once I had sat down, with all my belongings in a comfy place, the stewardess asked if two people in rows 1 through 5 would be able to move back to seats in rows 9 through 12, so as to better balance the plane. As I was in seat 4A, and was still feeling cheery, I quickly volunteered, grabbing my things and heading back, choosing a pair of empty seats to plop down my stuff and myself in. As the stewardess called for another person to move, I remembered the stewardess on my flight two weeks ago, who had asked me to move to the back of the plane. Then I had thought that perhaps it was because I looked suspicious in my black trench coat and hat -- but no, it was merely to balance the plane, as it was now. Strange to think that our perception of events influences how we interpret them, but then again it is not strange at all, for our perception influences our reality. For as Montaigne, the great French philosopher wrote, "A man is not hurt so much by what happens, as by his opinion of what happens." Still, I mused a while until finally another volunteer moved back and the plane rolled out to take off. We lazily rose into the air and I drifted off to a state of semi-sleep, for the light of the westering sun was fading and tiredness crept up me from the extra long day.
In a short 45 minutes, we landed softly back in Kalamazoo. I gathered my things, went out the same hallway I had come in and hugged Mom and Dad. We grabbed my luggage, walked to the car and drove home, talking gladly and recounting my adventures. And then, at home, after a light snack and more discussion, I snuggled into my bed and fell into a deep, restful sleep of contentment.
And so it ends, as must all things in their season. But though things may end, spirits live on eternal, and the ties of memory between these spirits last onwards, outlasting even time itself.