Cherry Blossom Snow Storm

By Talya Perper

April 2010. My parents and I try our best to sleep in our cramped coach seats as we fly over the Pacific Ocean. Meanwhile, in Japan, the cherry trees are blossoming.

These two weeks in Japan are my graduation present. The story of how I fell in love with Japan is similar to the story of how a person falls for a childhood friend. It began with the fact that we shared a variety of interests. I started noticing the little details I couldn't get enough of, realized the deeper effects on my happiness, and soon enough, I was infatuated. For years, I had kindled that love in my heart, and that love is what brought me and my family from America's east coast to the eastern hemisphere.

A white minivan takes us from Narita airport to our hotel in Shiodome, Tokyo. My parents make small talk with the driver, even though he can just barely answer their English questions. Cherry trees line the road into the city. We drive through a flurry of pink and white petals. The driver says that the Japanese call it sakura fubuki – a cherry blossom snow storm. Through a curtain of gently falling flowers, I can feel Japan embrace me.

When we arrive at the hotel, our tour guide, Sachiko, meets us. In the process of showing us around Tokyo, she teaches us how to use the subway system. It is the first time I have ever used a subway system in my life. For years, my parents had told me about how dirty and dangerous subways were. We avoided the subway whenever we visited Boston or New York City; it was too easy for someone to kidnap a helpless girl like me, their only daughter.

Tokyo's subway is quite different than what I had ever imagined a subway to be like. Everything is clean and colorful and quiet and you can get hot coffee in cans from the vending machines. It's obscenely diluted, but I'm content with simply warming my hands on the bottle. It is unseasonably cold for spring. By the time we get back to the hotel, it is snowing.

I finish reading a chapter of Voltaire's Candide. My parents are out cold with jet lag. I check my phone for the time. It's not even 5:00 P.M. My stomach growls. I peek over the edge of my parents' bed. Oh yeah, they're in deep. I nudge my mom to see if she'll budge. "Mom. Mom, it's dinner time. We should eat." A tiny moan ekes out from her mouth and she rolls onto her side, away from me. Great. Now what? I look out the window. A gust of wind roars past, blurring the dusky Tokyo eve with white snow. We really should eat... A full minute of blank hesitation passes before I make my decision.

I dress myself in my warmest coat and boots, borrow a few ¥1000 bills from my dad's wallet, snatch a hotel card key off the counter, throw my purse over my shoulder, and make sure my ringtone is at its highest volume before stuffing my cell phone into my pocket. I write an explanatory note and stick it to the TV where I know my parents will notice it if they wake up before I come back. With all that accomplished, I set out to find food.

I remember the few times in my childhood when I would gather all my essential belongings in the earnest belief that I would run away and go on an adventure. I would tie everything up in a red bandana and sling it onto a fallen branch like vagrants do in old cartoons. Everything you needed could fit into a bandana. Trying hard not to wake my parents, I gingerly close the door to our room, and realize that it's probably true.

I ask the concierge where I can find fast food nearby. She says there's a food court in the mall just outside the hotel.
"Just go straight through the subway station, and on the other side is the food court." I thank her for the help, and make my way outside.

An icy mix greets me. I quickly but carefully run to the shelter of the subway station. My nervous breaths form tiny clouds which escape through the bulky scarf covering my mouth. Japanese businessmen and cram school students flow in the current I am crossing. They glance at my wavy hair and European nose. God, I must look so Jewish. I pull my scarf a little higher over my face.

I make it to the food court and quickly find a prime candidate for dinner – a take-out noodle stand. I timidly approach the counter. The nightshift employee sees me coming. He finishes up what he's doing in the kitchen area and positions himself at the register to take my order. I stand before him, gawking at the menu, trying to read aloud what I want. "U-do-n..." I can't recognize most of the symbols on the board. The employee sees me struggling and starts to fill in the blanks I am leaving for him. "Udon...Kore desuka? Udon desu." He points to the picture I am squinting at, a bowl of thick white noodles surrounded with slices of glistening chicken and floating kelp leaves. "Hai!" I say, "That's it!" The menu lists it as a #3 meal. "Ssanban kudasai [Number three please]." He smiles and nods in comprehension. "I need three bowls...uhm...ano...em>" I stumble on my syllables trying to find a way to explain how I needed three #3s, one for each of us. I hold up my three fingers again, and point to each one, saying, "Watashi, okaasan, do otoosan [Me, mom, and dad]...san kudasai [Three please]." After a few seconds, he decodes my poor grammar and exclaims, "Aah, souka! Wakarimashita!" In relief, I sigh, "Hai!"

He rings up my three number threes on the register and the price appears in digital numbers (thankfully) on the panel before me. It takes me a while to find the correct change in my wallet, but there is no line behind me, and the employee is so patient and kind. I take a seat in one of the empty court tables and wait for the employee to prepare my soup. While I fiddle with the applications on my cell phone, a text message from my mom pops up: "Saw your note – Where R U?? R U okay??!" I send a reply explaining the situation, that everything is fine and I am bringing home food. Her supplementary messages are much calmer as a result.

When my order is ready, the employee hails me from the counter. He has stacked the three plastic bowls on top of each other in a tower and double-bagged them so they'll be safe. I balance the bag in my arms, return the cashier's grateful bow, and retrace my path back to the hotel. In the icy wind, the udon bowls warm my chest. As I walk, I wonder how many of the white blurs swirling around me are snowflakes and how many are cherry blossoms.

A hint of quivering worry still affecting her voice, my mom asks me what it was like out there, if I had any trouble while I was out. I tell her it was cold, but I didn't have any problems finding us food. I hand out a bowl to each of us, plumes of steam rising as we remove the lids. My dad clicks on the TV and we watch Japanese commercials interspersed with the weather for the coming weeks. "Aw, my chopsticks split weird," my mom says, rubbing her sticks together to get rid of the splinters. I slide my chopsticks out of the paper sleeve and hold them up in front of my eyes. With a single focused snap, they split perfectly. "Itadakimasu. Let's eat."