Though this all happened two weeks ago, I felt it must be shared. I apologize for the delay, and I hope the brief, weekend access to a proper computer will suffice. It's a bit much to share on Twitter...
American Airlines was cramped and miserable as usual, as are all airlines in America, but my trip between shores went swimmingly. Singapore Air, by stark contrast, was absolutely amazing. In economy class (i.e., coach) I received: hot damp towels with which to freshen up, full meals catered to my dietary requests with free alcoholic drinks, regular snacks and drinks, Ben&Jerry ice cream, free movies, and a friendly and conversational staff, among other luxuries. I can't help but think that U.S. airlines are doing something very, very wrong...
Once in Japan I followed my preplanned itinerary to the Yen exchange, which was unfortunately low against my favor, and then on to the train ticket counter. I asked the young lady at the counter if she could converse in English, to which she replied, "少し," or, a little bit. I pulled up my papers to point to the train I wanted to take, she told me the cost, which was higher than was on the paper. Nevertheless, I paid and started making my way toward the trains slowly, thinking I had about forty minutes, according to the papers I had shown her. I looked at the ticket itself and realized something was very wrong. The train I was to board was not leaving in forty minutes. It was leaving NOW. My relaxed saunter switched to rapid strides, slowing only to pace my descent down stairs for the safety of my luggage—which you, dear reader, already know was in vain. Finding my train was easy enough, and, winded, I settled down to a seat in the first car I entered. It was not "my" seat as listed on my ticket, but, thankfully, the cars were empty enough that it did not matter. As the train began to move and I relaxed, I realized that this would be a bit of a blessing. Leaving sooner on the train meant I had more time before my bus left, which meant I had more time at my stop in Shinjuku to grab a bite to eat and to find a pay phone and call my husband. I pulled out my papers again to review his number and how to use the pay phone, and then I reached to get my wallet to make sure I had the right coins to use for the phone.
My wallet was not in my purse.
The train came to a stop, and it was time to switch to the other line that would deliver me to Shinjuku. Like subways in New York, you only have a few moments to get on and off each vehicle before it must continue on. I barely remember much of the ride to Shinjuku: getting on, receiving help moving my luggage, feeling embarrassed for looking so horribly distraught and yet helpless against my own emotions and the journey that had been set in motion for me. I could not go back, I thought. I had bought the tickets and was not in possession of money to buy a second set should I go back. The papers that held my bus reservation number were in my hand—I thought—and were my one and only way to get to my husband. I would have to figure out what to do about the lost wallet when I reached him. There was no point in considering it then, though I wondered how upset he would be at my losing almost $350 worth of Yen. I worried for the safety of my social security number, and what could be done with it, should it fall into the wrong hands. I realized looking through the papers in my clenched fist that my bus reservation and the paper with my husband's phone number (and how to use the pay phone) were now also missing. I was alone in Shinjuku with no money, no tickets, and no way to contact my husband.
Strangers with broken English were more willing and helpful than more fluent station workers. A rough but cheerful gentleman named Yoshi insisted on carrying the heavier of my bags between the train station and the bus terminals. Unfortunately I did not know enough Japanese, nor he enough English, to get past names, but his manner was genuinely friendly, and if there was any deception about him, it was not in line with the behavior I'd seen in unseemly Westerners.
I had already visited two bus terminals with no luck. Yoshi and I were on our way to a third when we ran into a handsome couple who also insisted on helping me. The clean-cut gentleman, whose name I later learned was David, spoke perfect English in an accent strikingly close to that of another friend. He said he had never been to Michigan (where my similar-sounding friend was from), but he had attended Rice University in my home state of Texas. David took my backpack and the young lady with him took my purse. Between my worn feet and my tears I could not protest, and there were moments when the couple, in possession of my valuables, was out of my sight, and the worst fears that rose in me were only abated by exhaustion and the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. "どこ、どこ...?" The only word I knew for "where" was all I could murmur at Yoshi who patiently led me down the path the couple had taken.
At the last bus terminal I visited in Shinjuku, the young lady acted as my escort and translator, desperately trying to determine if this was the place of my reservation and how we might contact my husband. I could remember all but two digits of his phone number, which was equivalent to knowing none of it. After much frustrating talk and no further trace of the reservation, David placed his credit card on the counter. My protest was sincere, but he would not hear of it. "Welcome to Japan," he said, and presented me with the ticket that would take me to Kanazawa.
In hindsight, I must have been so rude. Here is a Westerner who can barely speak a lick of the native tongue, impatient for help, and frustrated with questions she cannot answer. I did not introduce myself. I did not ask for their introduction. All my manners had fled at the arrival of my desperation. Thankfully, David gave me his business card and I was able to contact him later. The experience, he said, made him closer to Kana, the sweet woman with him. I hope their relationship continues to be a success. Before boarding the bus, Yoshi gave me a plush doll from a popular anime. The strange little creature kept me company on the way home, and I have it still.
My husband was waiting for me at Kanazawa Station, though I arrived over two hours later than my original reservation. We were both in tears. I am happy to report that his coworker called Narita Airport on our behalf and located our wallet. We received it by package delivery the following Monday, and all its contents were in place, including my social security card and all the cash. I cannot say such things would happen in America.
My experiences since, about which I will go into more detail soon, have all been positive. The only bitter moments that remain are the condition of my computer (which we have deduced to be the responsibility of one of the airlines, and which experience leads me to believe falls upon American treatment of passengers and their possessions) and the missing presence of our loved ones, particularly our animals and best friends. The people here have been patient and trusting, and the food, delicious. The weather has been cold, but not oppressive, and I've been able to see fully and naturally formed snowflakes for the first time with my own eyes. I have already seen mass transit and modern fashion, as well as ancient castles and shrines, and tended gardens with ponds full of koi. I feel I am a witness to one of the major shifts in Japanese history, and I am fortunate enough to experience it in Kanazawa, a city that remained untouched through the most devastating wars. I feel safe and new in Japan and happy in my husband's arms.
Kanazawa, I am home.
