Akira and Sendai

I was standing out at my usual wifi hotspot, at about 11:30 on Tuesday night, soaking wet, in a suit, avoiding the glances of passersby. I just wanted to check my email and head home. Suddenly, this guy says “hey!” I look up and reply with a friendly hello.

The man is dressed in the usual white button down shirt and black apron of a waiter. I ask him what he is doing.

“I’m just out walking around” he replies, “There is nobody eating in restaurants tonight, its too hot and rainy”.

I agree.

“Your new in town, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m the new guy around here” I reply.

He laughs at this statement, and we get to chatting about Fukushima, his hometown.

“I’m Uri” I say

“I’m Akira, it’s an easy name to remember for foreigners” he says.

“Nice to meet you Akira Kurasawa” I reply

He laughs and explains away all relations to the famous movie director.

We talk about the usual questions that I think every Japanese person asks every foreigner. Why did you come to Japan? What is the most surprising thing you seen since you’ve been here? How on earth did you end up in Fukushima? I’ve been asked these questions so many times, I have almost scripted answers. His English is surprisingly excellent. We run through the routine. I reply with my usual questionnaire. What is the best thing to do in Fukushima? What is you favorite restaurant? Where can I get a bike?

My bicycle questions usually is answered with an ‘I don’t know’ and a shrug of sorts. Akira thinks for a moment and his eyes light up.

“I know of a huge bike shop, they have everything!” he says.

My first lead. “Where is it?” I pry.

“Well it’s pretty far from here”

“How far?”

“Thirty minutes by car” he says.

Shot down…I debate riding my mama chari bike this far, it doesn’t strike me as enjoyable.

“But, I could drive you” he adds.

I look up, maybe like a kid on Christmas, and thank him profusely.

“I will pay you for gas and buy you some lunch, thank you!” I say.

We make a plan to meet on Sunday in front of the train station.

At this point my pragmatist side starts to kick in. We have been talking for quite a while. “Um, Akira, isn’t your boss going to be mad that you have been out walking around for nearly an hour?”

“Good point” he says, “I will see you Sunday.” After exchanging emails and phone numbers, we shake hands, bow, and part ways.

I am very excited, but at the same time my pragmatist side is still working hard. Why does this guy want to help me out? Is he going to mug me? Is he going to drive me to his dungeon and cut me up to pieces? I figure I will never have any friends with that approach and decide that I must meet him and find out.

Sunday arrives, sunny and hot, and I ride to the station. I hope in his little four wheel drive Mitsubishi, and we’re off. We get to chatting and make the journey to this bike shop. I thank him at least 300 times along the way (which was way too far to ride, by the way).

When we arrive, I am slightly let down by the fleet of mama chari bikes they have out front. Once we get inside though my spirits are rejuvenated. They have all sorts of bikes, road bikes, mountain bikes, kid’s bikes, used and new. The place doesn’t have air conditioning though, so it’s about 115 degrees inside the tent like structure. I start to notice that all the bikes a very small. Akira starts to chat up the shopkeeper, and he points at me. The owner looks me up and down and starts to chuckle.

“He wants to know how tall you are” Akira says.

“Six fee two inches” I exclaim. They look at me like I’m speaking Hebrew. I whip out my IPod for the conversion program.

“187 centimeters” I say.

Akira translates and the shopkeeper laughs.

Must be the heat getting to me. I should know better than to use my native sense of measurement. The shopkeeper pulls out a catalog, and I think to myself that I will be leaving empty handed today. My dreams of having a beautiful old steel road bike, the kind Japan was famous for in the 70’s and 80’s, the kind they have up on the walls in the shop collecting dust, the kind I could ride 50 miles from Fukushima on, my dreams crumble.

Shopkeeper looks at the catalog, punches some numbers into a calculator and shows me the result. 78,900 yen. That is over $800. Seriously? Did this guy think I would give me that much money based on a picture in a catalog? I can’t buy a bike without riding it. Sorry, I shake my head. He shrugs his shoulders. I point at the vintage 3Rensho hanging up on the wall and grunt. I know for sure I could get over $1500 for it on eBay. He stares at me coldly and shakes his head. A regular Mexican standoff. The heat is starting to make me crazy and I head for the door, slightly crushed.

Its okay, I tell myself. No money out of my pocket. Me and Akira go get a sandwich. I buy, and thank him for his efforts. He tries to think of another bike shop we can go to.

“Don’t stress about” I tell him. “Let’s head back to Fukushima, and we can catch a movie or something, get out of the heat”.

He looks up at me, “want to go to Sendai?”

I’m dumbfounded; the pragmatist is already hard at work. “What about gas and the time and…” all these concerns come tumbling out of my mouth.

“Don’t worry about it” he says. I continue to gloat and moan thinking that I am inconveniencing him.

He interrupts me “why do you go to work everyday?” he asks.

“Uh…” I have no idea what to say “to make money?”

“What is the point of living if you work all the time and never spend any of that money?” He says. “Why do work if we don’t occasionally enjoy?”

Again, I’m dumbfounded to respond. “Let’s go” I finally say.

We hop in the car, drive to the gas station, fuel up, get some water and head out.

“How long is the drive?” I question once we are on the road.

“About an hour” he says, “but time flies when you have good music”. As he says this, he reaches behind his seat and pulls out a shoe box of cd’s.

“Pick one” he says.

I look through the selection….they are all Michael Jackson. At least 20 cd’s. One Craig David album. This guy is clearly obsessed. I begin to imagine the dungeon and being cut up to little pieces again. I push the thoughts from my mind, pop in ‘Thriller’ and sit back and relax.

Akira explains to me that after MJ’s death he began to listen to his music and has since become a regular super-fan. He says these are only the cd’s he travels with, he’s got more at home, and countless DVD’s. After about 40 seconds I find myself singing along and we are making good time.

We get to the toll box right before Sendai. 1800 yen. $20 to drive on this stretch of road. Wow.

We pull into Sendai and immediately get stuck in traffic. After about 20 minutes we find some insanely cheap pay parking spot, lock the car, and head out on foot.

“I had a girlfriend that lived here for a year, so I used to come visit a lot” Akira explains. “I went to university here for a year too, so I know all the good spots”. We walk toward the main station.

Sendai is a major city, 3-4 million people, beautiful tree lined sidewalks and talk sky scrapers. I notice lots of young people, a nice change from the retirement home feel of Fukushima. There is an awesome jazz band playing near the station and we stop to take in the sounds for a while, basking in the sun. I look out over the raised shopping area above the busy street below. City of the future I think to myself. I’m starting to notice there is one way to describe most big Japanese cities: Endless shopping.

We walk around, check out shoe stores, watch boutiques, a pet shop, art and architecture firms, the Apple store. A noisy parade approaches us. It’s a bunch of people in a traditional summer outfit, which looks like a gi, with no pants and cotton shoes. It actually strikes me as perfect. I would love to not have pants on right now I think to myself. They are chanting and rhythmically carrying this big box type thing. It looks like a moving shrine. There a little girls doing some kind of dance with these multicolored fans, all the while singing the most high pitched insanely loud song I’ve ever heard. Like a millions tiny violins, with drums and the chanting from the pant-less box carriers. It is a feast for the ears and eyes. A regular Japanese marching band.

“Are they religious?” I ask Akira.

He laughs “No, they’re just having a good time. Japan isn’t a religious place”.

I think about that for a while.

As the sun starts to set, we walk by a noisy restaurant with a line.

“That’s the best, most famous gyoza in Japan” Akira says nonchalantly.

“I have to try it, gyoza are my favorite” I exclaim. We wait in line, finally make it inside, and sit down at the bar. The kitchen is open for us to view and the guy hand making the gyoza is right in front of me. He is about 300 lbs, and he is sweating like crazy. His little paper hat is soaked through. His neck is wretched downward to ensure his gyoza come out perfect. Every time he moves to get more filing for the dumplings, sweat comes flying off in beads and lands everywhere. I notice the rest of the cooks have the same situation going on. Lots of sweat flying all over all the food. That is there secret I think to myself, trying not to judge. They are the best gyoza in Japan because they are made with sumo sweat.

Our plate arrives, Akira shows me how to concoct a nice spicy and sour sauce for them and we dig in. Best gyoza I’ve ever had. By far.

We head back to Akira’s car and I see a bike locked to pole. It is perfect. Single speed, tall frame, bright colors. I point at it and groan audibly. I had such an awesome day I forgot what the purpose of the initial excursion was. I no longer care. Somewhere in Japan, there is a bike waiting for me to find it. Until then all I need to remember that little bit of Japanese philosophy I was treated to earlier that day.

“What is the point of working your whole life if you don’t spend a little money here and there? Why, then are we living?”

I’ll find my bike, until then, don’t worry and enjoy the ride. Thanks Akira.