Japan Trip Part Three: Airports [let's pretend the other entries had titles, too]

At my layover in San Francisco, the reality and gravity of my trip had finally dawned on me: as I waited for the plane to Osaka, I was surrounded by Japanese people. Memory is not a perfect thing, but I recall being the only black person there. I walked by them and sat down without attracting a multitude of stares. During the flight, I chatted with a friendly elderly Japanese American, who, despite his age, had the wry, dry, and witty humor of a much younger man. Ten hours or so passed, with the pacific beneath us and the sky around us: I’d never spent this much time off the ground before.

Daylight still reined when we Japan, though it came out flat and gray, strained by heavy overcast. There is something very different about the architecture and infrastructure there, which I can’t precisely explain. Perhaps it is the size: things seemed smaller, more compact. Or, it may be the meticulous planning that echoes from the neatness of its ordering. Suffice to say, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I parted from my flight-mate, wished him luck on his journey, and set melded into line of people entering the airport. Even this was different than what would typically happen in the States: it was silent. And so heavy was this silence that it was almost tangible: a hard silence. It seemed almost as if we were a group of weary refugees than normal travelers, with the quietness that hung in the air like an entity all on its own.

I knew I had to get to customs, but the getting there was beyond me. Completely lost, I moved with the stream of people to what I hoped was my destination. Fortunately, this hope was not in vain, and we arrived at a large room where finely-dressed women gave us instructions in both fluent Japanese and broken English. We formed lines; Japanese speakers listened to the instructions, and even those who didn’t understand Japanese could follow by instinct. As for myself, I was somewhere in between. I followed my line to a table in the middle of the room, whereupon I had to fill out my contact information. One of the women said to me, “Juusho wo kaite kudasai” (Please write your address). I paused, a nervous lump forming a fist in my throat. Where was I staying? I had no idea about my friend’s address. I resorted to writing my friend’s name and other sparse information, which, fortunately, sufficed. After the man at customs stamped my passport, I was officially welcomed to Japan.
But unlike the landing of the plane that brought me there, the welcome would not be smooth. After surviving customs without being lost in translation, I had another plane to catch. Ok, I knew this much. I did not know how much time I had left, or where to buy the ticket. The searching game began. There was no time to tour the airport, so I just looked around and enjoyed the views while I tried to find the counter. An elevator took me there, three stories later. I went up to the counter, greeted by a smiling woman in a neat red vest and white shirt. I posed my query in Japanese, right after saying sumimasen (excuse me), “I want to go Fukuoka airport. When and how much is the next ticket?” The answer wasn’t pretty. At the end of the transaction, I had a couple of yen bills left and about three to four minutes to get through security and catch the plane. Suddenly, the lady at the desk broke her calm composure, exited via a side door, and took off running – quite adeptly in high heels. She speedily click-clacked her way to the security gates, me running with her, and explained to the guard that I had little time to spare. The woman waited while I went through a ‘speed checkout’ with the man: empty pockets, take off belt, separate computer and laptop and place them in a bin, walk through, pass – go! I thanked the man and broke off into another run with the woman. At the departure gate, she bade me goodbye; I gave her my thanks and farewell, then sped-walked into the third plane of the day.

I could now relax. The seat took me in like a lover: soft contours pulling me into its form; the rush evaporated from sore leg muscles. Outside, rain murmured quietly as it peppered the slaked, brown concrete of the runway. Inside, the small population of travelers – mostly businessmen by the looks of it – read papers in silence or closed their eyes to rest. The pilot’s nasally voice bled from the intercom, filling the air like paint spreading tranquilly in water. We took off from the runway shortly afterward. I once thought it was a myth that all (or at least most) Japanese flight attendants were attractive, but if what I saw that day was standard, then it is far from myth. There was not a single male attendant on the flight, only neat navy skirts and classy uniforms, high heels, and pretty smiling faces. I was quite enamored with it all. One of them said something to me in Japanese; I stupidly nodded as if I understood every word she spoke. After seeing that I didn’t respond correctly she said “lift” (in English), and pointed to the table that I had pulled from the seat in front of me. Ah…oops. I bashfully lifted the table back up. Sometime later, another stewardess came and, after offering me a refreshment, and hearing the ‘no thanks’ said in Japanese, gasped in pleasant surprise, sat down near me, and struck up conversation. After this flight, I would never want to fly American airlines again.