And suddenly, it’s been three years. Suddenly, this is the house I’ve lived in the longest in my entire adult life. The longest THIS MILLENNIUM.
Three years later, and I remember every single second of that first day, trying to order my first meal and eat it exactly right. I try to add to that mental movie every day. I hope I never forget leaving to run in the early morning this week, and the kindly old man out walking his tiny, fluffy dog who stopped to let me pass and nodded with a small crinkly smile — only to pass him again as we were both heading back the other direction, this time a bigger smile and bow at the coincidence of our mornings. The two little girls in yellow safety hats, no bigger than Frankie, walking home from school, holding hands. And the developing research question that would absolutely stand up to academic scrutiny — does the more and better Japanese you use ordering at CoCo’s, correlate to the hotter a Level 2 Spice is?
It does. My p-value is SIGNIFICANT.
And it’s the every day moments and the magical little happenstances that have become tradition — if you can count, “we’ve gone twice!” as a tradition.
Our neighborhood shrine has a ginger festival every September. There are a few carnival games, food booths, and a lovingly constructed stage for performances.
To me, even though it’s not strictly on stage, watching someone make takoyaki is worth being a good audience member. Flipping all those balls and keeping them intact? It’s amazing.
Maybe you get used to rows of dancing lanterns, maybe it becomes just a casual thing? Maybe. But if that happens, it takes longer than three years, that’s for sure. They are still so magical to me, always.
Frankie and I went to the festival last year on a curious whim. We were driving home past the shrine, which is perched on a hill and could see the twinkling and celebration glowing in the late summer dusk. We parked at home, and walked straight back.
This year, I knew what the sign said. I knew the festival was coming and we were absolutely going to go. Frankie planned all day about the hotdog and cotton candy she was going to have. As we walked over to the hill, we started to hear the thrum, the beat. We followed the sound of the taiko drummers all the way there.
The top of the hill was already abuzz. We got in line with our coins, and surreptitiously rehearsed the order of claps and bows before it was our turn. Offering made, we circled the booths and returned smiles. Frankie got her hotdog, and we scored seats in front of the stage.
As an old stagehand from another life, those spotlight guys are my people.
This summer has been hot. Not just hot, punishingly, blazingly, in-complete-opposition-of-human-life HOT. By festival time, we were on the tail end, opening the weather app every day and counting the days until the temperatures dipped. This day was one of the last, and we sat and watched the first two musical performances and sweated quietly.
And then, about the moment we were standing in line for cotton candy, it started to sprinkle. Cool little raindrops like little sparkles of relief.
We got the cotton candy in a bag instead of on a stick.
There was time to watch one more performance before we left, and we parked ourselves at the bottom of the spotlight tour. One of the back-up spotlight guys, who was helping his friends arrange a tarp above their operation, offered me his jacket. As I was thanking him and declining in my very best Japanese, the next song started.
And so she does. The Sōran Bushi! She learned it for her school festival, and was very mad her yukata didn’t let her do the dokkoisho up to her standards. This time, in the back of the audience under the sprinkling rain, she danced along with them. The men at the tower looked and nodded at her very enthusiastic performance.
By this time the whole town was here, ready for the mikoshi. We stood and watched them getting ready before we wandered home.
It’s the little things. Knowing you should absolutely buy a serving of yakisoba to go before you leave the festival. Nodding hello to all the neighbors you pass, weaving through the darkened fields. Stopping at the corner store for cold drinks before you head home in the warm dark, well after bedtime.
I think it’s the sweet spot, three years — knowing just enough to join in, and not enough for the glow to fade.
Maybe, if you do it right, it never will.
