On Mindings Japanese Ps and Qs (Ls and Rs)

A long-standing and unfortunate joke among foreigners in Japan is the laughter aimed at the struggle among many Japanese to differentiate between the pronunciation of L and R.  Curried rice becomes curried lice, made all the worse because the word for lice (shirami) sounds too much like a white speck of meat.  As a child, I would avoid ordering curried rice in restaurants if they misplaced the l and r.  Not having seen lice, I assume they were white and squiggly, looking too much like grains of rice.  Granted, rice is not squiggly, but if it moved I'm sure it would wiggle and not crawl--or so my child-logic deduced. 

When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm.  My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm.  Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating.  Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing.  In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player."  Very, very different things.  Perhaps you had to be there.  I didn't find much om that day.  Too much giggling.

On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused.  Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands.  "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased.  Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you."  Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!"  I stop.  Are they saying, "Love you"?  I can't tell.  If they are, this is huge.  Like is a safe word.  Like a lot is also okay.  But, love is reserved for the super special.  I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured.  The tots don't let up though and I must respond.  I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.

I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh!  A new word!" or a "Pffft.  We knew that one."  We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.

The Scent of Love

Whether we have five or six senses is not the point today.  The most important sense for me growing up has been scent.  I'm fascinated by it.  It matters.  Not having the words to articulate what draws me to Tohoku again and again, I'm at a loss.  Do I credit scent or something else I can't put my finger on?  Let me explain.

I'm in love.  With my husband, yes.  I love my family, yes.  I also have a new love.  This new love does not compete with my love for those back home.  It adds to it. 

I don't know how else to say it.  There's something here in Tohoku that keeps pulling me back.  Yes, the scent here is different than anywhere else.  The freshness of the air, the ocean, the crispness of the mountains immediately behind the sea with its musk and earthy smell, it culminates in a scent the nostrils cannot pick up.  It hits my psyche.  It goes straight to my soul.

The 12-year old me would get on a bus by myself and make my way downtown to buy my favorite shampoo and conditioner.  It was the scent that made me want to travel 30 minutes into town by myself.  That's how important it was to me.  I still remember the scent of my mother's compact, tucked away in a drawer in her dresser.  The bejeweled golden case made me think this is what Marie Antoinette or Mata Hari must have used.  It was beautiful.  The scent, however, is what drew me back to sneak a peak at it, powdering my nose and hoping my mother would not notice.

In Tohoku, there is a power that transcends my favorite sense.  A vortex of goodness?  Perhaps.  Every trip I make to Rikuzentakata City Hall has me wondering what it is about the employees there who are so genuinely happy.  What is about the people of Ofunato that make them exude happiness?  What does this place have?  What is it? 

I choose to assume it's something in the air.  That the people breathe it day in, day out, it must does do something to them.  Their desire to move forward, their drive, motivation, resolve--it must come from somewhere.  Does breathing fresh air, the scent of purity, make people happy?  Why don't other cities far removed from large metropolitan areas also share this same trait then?  Why don't people there ooze this same joie de vivre?

Whatever it is, I'm hooked.  The scent of love is entrenched in my nostrils.  For that, I'm grateful.  It fuels me.  Next step is to harness this scent and make a new perfume out of it.  My to-do list just got longer.  Again.