IMR: Entries: 2001: October: 21 — Sunday, October 21, 2001

Sweet Home Me and airports just didn't get along today. But I'm home in one piece, and really, what more do I need?   This huge needle thing is an icon of Shanghai. The drive back to the Pudong airport (PVG). Once again, those APEC median balls. The new Pudong airport terminal. The Ministop, my Narita landmark. When you hit the fork, head right. The pride of Narita: a new street. Guard cats at the Naritassan temple. Could I now be a Kikuya regular? A slow evening at the restaurant. Satoko, my gracious hostess. The island of O`ahu comes into view. The rugged West Coast of O`ahu. The way out to sleepy Wai`anae. Kapolei is busting out all over. Military ships crowded into Pearl Harbor. Planes lined up at Hickam Air Force Base. Honolulu's short but world-famous tower. Having fallen asleep before 3 a.m., I actually dipped my toes into deep sleep before the Bose clock rocked me awake at 5:30 a.m. I showered yet again (I'm going to miss that shower), brushed up, packed what was left of my things, and headed down to the lobby at 6 a.m. to check out and eat breakfast before my 7 a.m. van to the airport. Of course, since I was the only member of the staff returning today, I had to bring back some of our giant Rubbermaid footlockers by myself. I picked two moderately heavy specimens out of the back room, and checked them into storage at the concierge with my suitcase. Then I went over to the restaurant, settling for some bland bacon and eggs since the great breakfast buffet wasn't going to be open until it would have been time for me to leave. As I gnawed through some extra dry bacon, I watched the sun come up, and smirked as the residential tower across the street emptied... of hotel employees, who only had to walk twenty yards to get to work. When my van pulled up, we loaded the two big bins and my suitcase into the back, I hopped in front, and we were off right on schedule. My driver wasn't terribly talkative, which was fine, and I drifted in and out of sleep. Every so often I'd wake up and see something, from a group of old women doing something like Tai Chi on the side of the road (hmm!), to more of those mysterious decorative spheres positioned at major intersections, to the giant silver space needle thingie that I saw everywhere on signs and posters but never really learned about. Everyone was heading off to work, and any time we stopped at a light, more bicycles than cars would flow past us. My driver wasn't really awake, which was a problem, and on his first approach to the airport he accidentally headed toward the arrivals corridor. We had to circle out and around and come in again, and I got the 10-cent tour of the heavy construction surrounding the area. Eventually, we pulled up to the curb, the driver hopped out and pulled the two big bins out for me, and he waved as he drove off. I nabbed a cart, put the bins on it, and struggled to steer it inside. Once there, I saw the line to check in stretched halfway down the length of the whole building, easily representing an hour's wait. I just sighed and took my place and shuffled forward every five minutes like everyone else. It wasn't until I was zig-zagging inside the little ropes fronting the check-in desks before I realized I didn't have my suitcase. It was still in the van, on its way back to Pudong. Not that I knew that, of course. My first thought was that I left it outside at the curb. So after begging a (fortunately) English-speaking guy to watch and push my cart along, I raced outside to search. Then I raced back inside to search. Then I bothered two sleepy ladies at the information desk, who pretended to try and help but were clearly only adding me to the day's count of "stupid Americans." I raced around some more, back outside, then along the length of the line inside. Breathless, I then checked both of the baggage storage counters on the floor, then sprinted downstairs to the lost-and-found area. Still having no luck, and imagining the unattended big black bins upstairs causing an international incident, I ran back up to the information desk and put on my saddest look and asked, "Is there anything I can do?" They did two things: they made an announcement on the PA system, and they called security. "Well, that's it," I thought, as two men in sharp blue uniforms came out of nowhere to see what was up. "I'm toast." They lead me back to their little security hut, and grabbed one guy who could speak English. He translated between me and the big security boss, who very quickly developed that same blank "stupid American" look. He wanted me to fill out a form. I wanted to get on a plane. They had me show them where I came into the airport, and which line I was in. They had me describe the bag. They checked my passport, and asked if I came by taxi or hotel shuttle. I answered the latter. "Are you sure you brought your bag to the airport?" the English-speaking guard said. "Do you have your baggage claim ticket from the hotel van?" "Um, no, but..." But of course, I suddenly suspected they were right. So then I knew I was just out of luck, and I just had to make sure I didn't miss my plane, and hope that the hotel could FedEx my fancy shirts and dress coats (which I don't wear but twice a year anyway) to me later. I raced back to the check-in desk, cut to the front of the line, and grabbed my bin-loaded cart, which had simply been pushed to the side and didn't seem to worry anyone. I got my boarding pass, paid my 90RMB Airport Construction Fee, staggered through security and immigration, and plopped down on a seat at my gate. After catching my breath, I got back up and started wandering the shops for my traditional last-minute souvenir run. And as I was shoving two plush panda bears into a little bag, I heard a long string of unintelligible Chinese over the intercom, ending in what sounded almost like "Ozawa." Feet aching, I took of running again toward the nearest official looking person. "I think I just heard my name," I told her, and she called somewhere, and the next thing I knew, there were three men in sharp blue uniforms standing next to me. "Your suitcase is at the check in desk," she said. "Please go with these men." And what a sight it must have been, a sweaty, harried Japanese guy with a bulging laptop briefcase being escorted out of the Pudong International terminal by annoyed-looking security guards. An elderly couple we passed looked absolutely horrified, and I suspect they were imagining that I was about to meet a rather messy end. We passed back through immigration and security, and notably at each, one of my escorts would stop, with the apparent expectation of waiting for me to come back through. The last guy took me right up to the counter, where a very embarassed looking hotel van driver was waiting with my suitcase. He'd explained the whole sorry story to the Northwest ticket agents, and they checked it through in a flash. Then the security guard led me back the way we came, and as expected, at each checkpoint, one of the earlier guards just waved us through. I plopped back in the same seat I'd originally rested in, blinked a few times, and said, "Well, then." I slept very, very well on the first leg of the trip, from Shanghai to Tokyo. I don't remember food, a movie, or anything. Just being shaken awake and told to fasten my seatbelt. But once in the Narita "Pit of Hell" Airport, I was a man with a mission, with purpose. I had another six-hour layover, and I wasn't going to waste a second of it in that prison. This time, finally, there was no hesitation, no befuddled studying of signs. I filled out my visitor pass, got through immigration and customs, checked in my carry-on bags at the luggage storage desk, changed some money, and headed down underground to catch the next Limited Express train on the Keisei Line to Narita. Less than 40 minutes after my plane had touched down, I was walking along Omotesando Street toward the temple. I only had two landmarks to check off my list: the Mini Stop convenience store (previously known as "the store with the Pocket Wetty"), and the little fork in the road that had once confounded me for half an hour. I climbed the steep steps to the temple, paid my respects to two cats standing guard, and stopped at the giant urn in the courtyard to burn some incense. I then skipped the temple itself, heading in back for the gardens instead. I found my bench, and just meditated for what ended up being over an hour. I lost complete track of time, my head filled only with the sounds of birds and crickets (and the occasional jet), and I loved it. Finally I walked back up the street to Kikuya, my favorite restaurant. Satoko, the hostess who'd been there each and every time I'd visited before, was there, and recognized me. Before I ordered, she served some Kubota sake — she even explained the history of the famous brand and the different grades, but sadly most of it was lost on a bumpkin like me. I let her craft my order: mixed tenpura (shrimp, mushroom, lotus root, onion, pumpkin), sashimi, nishime with one little golf-ball-sized octopus in it, and of course their incredible dark miso soup, which has little mushrooms and a dollop of almost syrupy sauce. I caught up on the news, from the restaurant staff's recent vacation to Bangkok to the amazing development of the owner's grandson. The thirteenth-generation cook, Kotaro "Kocha" Ishibashi, even came out to say hello. I noticed that my meal was being served on fancy plates I hadn't noticed before, all shaped like leaves. When I complimented them, she explained that they actually change plate sets with the seasons, and that I had just caught the introduction of the fall collection. She asked about Hawaii, and I told her that we were suffering because of the plummeting tourism industry. She said, perhaps illustratively, that the Japanese are still nervous to travel anywhere in the U.S., especially with the latest news of biological warfare. "But," she said, "Hawaii is not really like the Mainland, so maybe more likely we'd visit there." Although they'd more likely go somewhere else in Asia first. With just over two hours left to my flight home, it was time to go. Though I knew it wasn't customary, I left a little ¥1,000 tip. (For all I knew at the time, it could have been equivalent to 30 cents.) She walked me out and stood at the door and watched until I was completely out of sight, just like the Japanese often do. I caught the next train back to the airport, and found my way back to the baggage storage desk. "That'll be ¥600," the nice lady said, bringing my bag out. I checked my pockets. Uh oh. After going through every pocket and bag, I came up with — get this — ¥540. Short by about — and now I did the math — 50 cents. No checks. No credit cards. She found a coupon for me, but that only (infuriatingly) reduced my shortage to 10 yen (8 cents). She even looked under her desk for some fallen change, to no avail. I almost wished I hadn't leave that tip. Ultimately, I ended up changing the only cash left in my wallet — US$100 — into ¥11,800. That gave me the 10 yen I needed to reclaim my carry-on bag, and scurry back into the bowels of the airport to catch my connecting flight home. On this flight, I made my only "single-serving friend" of the trip: a warm gentleman by the name of Ken, who worked in quality control for Hedstrom Corporation. He was just in China visiting their overseas factories, and was on his way home to Ohio. I talked about my job in international business and conference planning, and he talked about his job in plastics. Balls, specifically. Balls of all sizes. Balls, mostly for kids, but some for adults. Balls that fill the playpens at Burger Kings. Giant balls with handles that both kids and grownups can't resist bouncing on. Hopper and playground balls. Toy balls for kids, athletic balls for everyone. Their balls, Ken said, now hold most of the ball-related shelf-space in large retail stores like Wal-Mart, the target of a strategy that is starting to pay dividends. Balls are only their largest product line, of course. Hedstrom and Hedstrom Plastics make lots and lots of other toys (they're number three, four or five behind Mattel and Hasbro, depending on who you talk to), and other random things for industrial purposes as well. I learned a lot about toy product testing and safety, international shipping channels, and generalized problems with retail employees generally unqualified to properly inflate balls. He, in turn, learned about MP3s and MP3 players from me. It was a pretty good knowledge exchange for an airplane ride. The flight was fairly empty, which was bad news for Hawaii but good news for me. I got a row to myself, and stretched completely out, and slept for nearly four hours. When I woke up, I finally started reading the novel I picked up when I left Hawaii. It wasn't bad, and I think I might enjoy the series that it's a part of, but John Sanford is a little too prone to cliche and a little too generous on the foreshadowing for my tastes. I was 20 pages from the end when we started to land, but I'm pretty sure I know how it ended. I felt a warm feeling all over when O`ahu came into view out the window. As we made our final approach, I spotted beaches and buildings and neighborhoods, and only sighed as the plane tilted and turned to align itself with the reef runway. There was not a hint of nervousness, this time. I was home, and I almost didn't care what condition I reached it in. If a person can feel a stirring love for a place like they feel for a spouse, or at least for a college crush, then that's what I felt. I realized that the more I traveled, and the more time I spent away from the islands, I came to believe deeply in two things: one, that Hawaii is a crazy, politically corrupt, culturally starved, backwater outpost that has more in common with Fiji than most American cities. And two, it's one of the most amazing, beautiful, wonderful places on Earth, absolutely unique, with a spiritual energy that moots all the shenanigans of the people who live there, and that is undoubtedly a vital part of who I am. It's a dysfunctional relationship, but I can't live without it. I almost enjoyed the smelly, hot bus ride to the immigration center, and happily put up with the pointless grilling at customs. ("What's in these bins? No, don't open them, just tell me what's inside.") Mom picked me up in my van, and I went straight downtown to the office to drop things off. I was able to catch Kelly on what was her last day with us, as she'd just gotten a "real job" at Pacific Guardian Life as a programmer. I told her I'd miss her, and meant it — she was the first web intern I'd had who'd actually worked out. I knew she'd do well. Then, finally, I went home, and promptly passed out for the rest of the day. Mom, fortunately, called to wake me in time to pick up Katie, and the two of us went to pick up Jen. It was a happy reunion, all around, and we celebrated our reunification in the traditional way: Dinner at Zippy's. Keisei Line to Narita RealVideo 0:20/211k   Omotesando Street in Narita RealVideo 0:25/256k

Comments E kala mai! Comments have been disabled due to overwhelming abuse by spammers. Please click through to any of the video hosting services linked above to leave a public response, or feel free to send an e-mail. Mahalo! < October 18 · October · October 24 > © 1997-2008 Ryan Kawailani Ozawa · E-Mail: imr@lightfantastic.org · Created: 13 November 1997 · Last Modified: 14 January 2008