A JAPANESE CANADIAN GOES “HOME"

November 3 1962

A JAPANESE CANADIAN GOES “HOME"

November 3 1962

A JAPANESE CANADIAN GOES “HOME"

This is what a Canadian reporter who speaks fluent Japanese saw and heard when he took his first look at the jazz-age country the New Japanese are grafting onto an ancient civilization, Probably no Western writer has brought back as clear a picture of the modern Japanese as FRANK MO RITS UGU, shown (right) in Tokyo

IT’S BECOME a journalistic tradition that when a writer approaches a foreign country, he begins to compose in his mind his opening paragraphs as soon as he's fastened his seat belt for the landing. Not one to flout tradition. I put together these words, more or less, as Japan Air Lines' DC-8 Kamakura Special slowly swooped down toward Tokyo’s Haneda airport this summer:

This is my first visit to Japan, the country from which my parents emigrated to Canada more than forty years ago. I learned to speak and read Japanese during my British Columbia childhood — but will my vocabulary stand up in Japan, where 1 can't toss in an English equivalent when a Japanese word or phrase eludes me? Will I find that Japan is truly the exotic land of gorgeously spectacular and traditional marvels that so many Canadian acquaintances have brought back hundreds of color slides to prove? How does the Japan of rock-and-roll and high-quality transistor radios and cameras jibe with the travel-poster images of exquisite architecture and doll-like geishas? How deep does the westernization I hear about really go?

The Japanese borrow words from abroad to describe ne w ideas and customs. Going steady is “abekku ” from the French word “avec”

This was not going "back home where I'd never been" tor me. Unlike the children of other immigrants. many Japanese - Canadians don't hear the clarion call of the Old Country. The constant fight against the "Once a Jap, always a Jap" epithet, hurled against us by West Coast witch hunters in the 1930s and 1940s, led many of us to underline the "Canadian” and obliterate the "Japanese” in "Japanesc-Canadian" until some years after the war with Japan ended. Yet during this working visit I'm to meet aunts, cousins and other relatives I only know from photographs and hearsay. Will I feel at home with them, at least? Most of them live in the country — do they retain the traditional ways and the regional dialect, which may confuse me? In the few w'ceks I have at my disposal, will it be possible to discover w'hat the

Japanese people are really like?

The p ane finally puts down. It is early night and suffocatingly hot. My first look at the Japanese people is after dark in Tokyos famed Ciinza, the downtown amusement and shopping district a few blocks from the Imperial Hotel where I've settled in. The streets are flooded w'ith people, which is typically Asian as I recall from my wartime stay in India. But the only foreign-looking aspect here is that everyone has black hair and brown eyes, and is of a height, say between five feet anil five-six — except for some young men who approach six feet. Obviously, they belong to the postwar breed of bigger Japanese. The pace on the sidewalks is brisk and the dress almost exclusively western. The dominant impression is of neatness, crispness and bright, w hite shirts and blouses. Only rarely does a Japanese costume flit by — and that on a woman whose

hairdo is short and modern, not the ponderous classic getup I expect. 1 discover later that she w'as undoubtedly a geisha.

CABARET HOSTESS HAS THE MOSTES’

Most of the women arc trim and graceful but curiously unsexy to the western eye because their clothes don't emphasize their bodies. The eye is drawn to their faces, and many of them are downright pretty. But once in a while an exception to the unprovocative rule comes along—a seductive-looking doll with made - up eyes, twitching along in a tightfitting dress. She must have been a cabaret hostess, I’m told.

As I walk along girl-watching, I gradually realize a surprising phenomenon. The Japanese pedestrian is shockingly rude. He jostles, pushes, pokes and tramples. Even where it's less crowded, an oncoming man will not step aside. 1 get banged on the shoulder often, and even when I catch the offender's eye — which is about half the time — there is no recognition, nor the apology one expects. I am reasonably agile in traffic (my studies of judo haven’t been for nothing) so this is a new and disturbing experience. Where is the famous Japanese courtesy? Among the help in the better hotels and shops, and among the people I meet, the courtesy is unfailingly apparent. A Japanese who knows you — someone you have exchanged the obligatory name cards with, or whose establishment or office you've entered — can t be surpassed for his good manners. But. out in the street, the same man turns into a Japanese Mr. Hyde, the way some of its do when we get behind the wheels of our cars.

Later 1 discover that like most things Japanese, the renowned politeness is deceptively different. We in the west are polite, when we are.

because of wanting to proffer good will to others. But Japanese politeness is part of a man’s social obligations to those he knows. He must give a good impression of himself. He must avoid social criticism. This is why all Japanese cab drivers keep their cars in polished trim — the car is an extension of the driver himself. But in public and away from his neighborhood, the Japanese can forget this obligation: he is among people he hasn't met. For this reason, the Japanese can make a mess of the streets, the parks and even the grounds of temples and shrines with wrappers and other debris, and yet religiously keep his walledin home and garden immaculate. With the Japanese, there are neat cut-off points to social responsibility.

BACKGROUND MUSIC: JAPANESE ROCK

Traffic in the Ginza loudly reflects this public hecdlessness. The

go-go gait of the pedestrian is matched by overhead trains that roar in and out of Yuraku-cho station nearby. Shiny cars in the street whiz by hooting their horns and streetcars clang impatiently in their turn. The constant background noise includes the raucous blare of recorded music from a beerhall. Audible right now is Blue Hawaii, sung by Elvis Presley, followed by a frenetic rockabilly song punctuated with “Yah, Yah 's and “Hey, Hey"s. I listen. The lyrics are Japanese.

The neon signs in the Ginza sky are as brilliant as fireworks. They, too. are a blend of the east and the west. Moving Japanese characters in brilliant colors have a refreshing graphic beauty to my eye even though I can read some of them. But the signs that dominate arc in Roman characters—“Maruzen” for a famous bookstore chain, and “Tctron,” the Japanese name for the fibre we call

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Neons in the dark attract moth-like customers to coffeehouses, hars and tilths in Tokyo's Ginza.

continued from pape 29

Perry Mason is in Japanese and baseball announcers are girls

Terylcne or Dacron. Down on street level, there's a Sony showroom with the new five-inch-screen TV sets in the windows. To gawkers outside, the sets are offering a selection of programs. including Perry Mason in Japanese. Nearby is a food store with a lavish display — on closer look, the offerings turn out to be dried fish and seaweed-imbedded biscuits in polyethylene bags. And here and there are cryptic Japanese signs denoting eating and drinking places, punctu-

ated by tiny signs in English that sáy “Bar,” “Club,” and “Coffee with Classical Music.”

“Tokyo isn't the real Japan,” one Toronto friend had assured me. He is a young designer who fell in love with Kyoto on his visit last year — which is par for the course. Being a lover of big cities myself, I am enthralled rather than dismayed by even this brief and confusing glimpse of Tokyo, but I can understand his reaction. The Ciinza—the area most foreigners see

first — contradicts the romantic and exotic mental images of Japan that we westerners carry. But if not “real Japan,” what then is Tokyo? Is the city so westernized because most of it was laid low by firebombs in 1945, and rebuilt while the U. S. Occupationary Force was laying down the ground rules? Has Kyoto remained the real Japan only because she was spared from wartime bombing?

My guide and companion on my trip to Kyoto is Satoshi Aoki, a quiet young man in his twenties. He’s from the Overseas Public Relations Section of the Japanese Foreign Office which has organized the schedule for my first two weeks. We travel in an airconditioned first-class coach of the Number One Fuji Limited express. The Japanese apologize for their highways and suggest hopefully that they will be bearable in time for the 1964 Olympics. And their domestic airlines aren’t much to brag about, burdened with ancient equipment, as I am to find out. But they are justly proud of their trains which are fast, punctual (there was some muttering in our coach outside Kyoto when it was announced we’d be thirty-five seconds late), and in our case, extremely comfortable. Again, the first impression is of westernization. Our fellow passengers wear western clothes. Out of the arm of my seat winds a cord with a button earphone. Aoki explains that it is for listening to either of the two NHK (Japan's CBC) radio broadcasts.

The train's own speaker system constantly interrupts conversation and radio listening. The voice is dulcet— Japan's announcers tend to be women, even at baseball stadiums. Stations are called out, and departing passengers shooed away with a thankyou, and a last polite warning not to leave anything behind. In between, there is paging for Sumizaki-san of such-and-such a company, or Isobcsan of another. Businessmen on the go in Japan even carry on their work via the train telephone system. Every now and then, the Japanese version of the railroad newsie comes along to add to the cacophony. The Japanese newsie is charming and comes in pairs—young girls in kerchiefs and blue smocks. But their voices shrill out as they hawk box lunches (rice, fish, pickles and chopsticks), sandwiches (which look like bigger CPR sandwiches) with coffee or pop, magazines, or gifts for travelers to take home — from candies to regional specialties like tubs of pickles.

I am all eyes and ears for everything that comes along. Outside the big picture-windows the countryside of western Japan rushes by, green hills and mountain peaks on one side, glimpses of the sea and the coast on the other. Here and there I see suggestions of traditional Japan. A huge hilltop statue of the benign Buddhist goddess, Kwannon; an old-style wooden farmhouse with sliding doors and a towering grass-thatched roof. But alongside the statue is a bold billboard in English advertising Fuji Film, and on the thatched roof pokes up a TV antenna. Big yellow bulldozers slash up land beside soft-green rice paddies in which workers are bending — we see only their round straw hats. Aoki tells me the construction is for the new Tokaido standard-gauge railway line which will improve the train system further.

“Aoki-san. do all Japanese use as many English words in their conversation as the ones 1 met in Tokyo?” I speak in Japanese because I’m now in the habit, and because the man from the Foreign Office is unsure of his English. In my first three days in Tokyo. I'd visited a transistor factory. the NHK radio and TV studios, and the headquarters for the giant Asahi newspaper and magazine empire. In each case, the representatives I met spoke Japanese — sometimes with relief on discovering their Canadian visitor didn't have to be addressed in English. But in all such conversations foreign words abounded— some French (avec, après, concours), one German word (arbeit, a word the Japanese use to mean “moonlighting"), and more contemporary English words than I could count. All, however, were pronounced in the Japanese way. At Sony, Masayoshi Suzuki, the young general manager of the transistor radio and TV firm's international division, had been direct and easy to talk to, unencumbered by traditional Japanese self-deprecation and reliance on oblique statements. Suzuki had spoken with pride of Sony's achievements — and not only did “transistor,” “tape." and "micrometer” come into the conversation but he used such words as “schedule,” “planning,” and “research,” instead of their Japanese equivalents. I assumed at the time that this was a special concession to an Englishspeaking foreigner. But since then, everywhere 1 turned in Japan, I'd run into English and other foreign words —even in nontechnical conversations. They also cropped up on television programs in almost every sentence, and in newspaper and magazine articles. My language problem, I found, was not so much to pick up current Japanese usage but to learn which foreign words were au courant and to remember to pronounce them the Japanese way. Waitresses say “rice,” when I ask for “gohan,” taxi drivers say “service," and everyone says “start'' (but not “finish”), “O.K.,” “chance,” “speed,” and “idea,” to list only a few of the hundreds of adopted foreign words.

“Yes, Moritsugu-san,” replies Aoki, “the language has taken in so many foreign words that many Japanese say they can't keep up.”

But isn't there some concern about

preserving the traditional language, if most people are using non-Japanese words so much?

"It bothers some Japanese, of course, especially the academicians.” says Aoki. “and there are complaints that the language is being destroyed or becoming hard to understand. It's all because of masu-komi (mass communications), you see. Newspaper and magazine writers, television commentators keep introducing new words almost every week."

But isn’t there an Académie Japonaise, like France's Académie Française. to guard the traditions?

"No. I don't think so. The Japanese are always eager for new ideas and new things—adopting new words is part of this. I suppose."

This is an unsatisfactory conversation but I am finding that Aoki's somewhat unconcerned acceptance is typical of the Japanese.

We reached Kyoto in early afternoon. A block from the station, in

the cab en route to the Miyako Hotel, I already see why a foreigner would be entranced by the place. As we speed across town, a tantalizing glimpse of a temple roof or a vermilion-colored shrine torii is almost always somewhere in view. The glimpses are high promises of exciting—and obviously really Japanese—marvels in store.

Kyoto was spared the American bombing of World War II which devastated Tokyo, Osaka and Kobe among other cities. Her 1,600 temples and 253 shrines, not to mention the ordinary homes and the buildings of old quarters like Gion and Ponto-cho, remain as before. Then, too, Kyoto was Japan's capital for more than 1,000 years, yielding to Tokyo less than a century ago. The Japanese, whose passion for the new is unequaled. also have an abiding passion for the old. They have jealously preserved the ancient capital’s treasures, even painstakingly reproducing from time to time any structure damaged by natural calamity or wilful human destruction. Here is where the picturesque postcard images of traditional Japan come to life.

There arc ugly buildings, too. The municipal art museum is a huge bulky mausoleum that would fit in anywhere in Ottawa, or on Toronto’s University Avenue, and the business district, is no aesthetic bargain. But the eye hurriedly leaves these depressing images and picks out the countless examples of the “real” Japan.

The inn at which we stay is part of this "real” Japan. The Hiiragi-ya is said to be one of Kyoto’s finest

ryokans—and so typically imprententious from the street, it takes a bit of looking for the cab driver to locate it. My ground-floor room is large and completely Japanese in decor with a tokonoma alcove that has a hanging scroll and a boldly simple flower arrangement in a handsome iron container. The only furniture is a large square black table with big cushions beside it. The maid opens the outer screens and reveals the small garden outside. There are some western-style details: chairs, an ancient air-conditioner, a radio and a TV set. The toilet is a western-style flushing type, but the bathroom is authentic old Japan. Instead of being tiled in current Japanese fashion, the bath is a square wooden box. 1 ask Aoki about the chairs, which seem disconcertingly out of place, but he shrugs.

"Most Japanese houses have chairs, too, these days. After all, many modern Japanese sit in chairs all day at work, and find it just as hard as you do to sit on the floor the oldfashioned way.”

Aoki and I meet a young woman employed by the municipal government who becomes our guide in that city. Her name is Setsuko Umeoka. She is obviously well educated and properly brought up. But once we get to know each other, I find to my astonishment that she has no inhibitions about expressing forceful opinions. Because the subject comes up she strongly criticizes the outdated thinking of certain individuals in high places, locally, and nationally. What she says seems to make admirable sense, and hearing it from a North American woman, I would feel no shock. But this is a Japanese woman speaking. I had found so far that very few Japanese men, in spite of their modernity, would criticize their elders except among intimates.

Even in the small villages, Japan looks like the West

Later I ask Aoki if Miss Umeoka isn't unusual. He mutters, “There are many bright young girls like this today in Japan. They are part of the apure (from après-puerre) phenomenon.” Aoki is a member of the apure generation himself but I gather he doesn't quite approve, although he agrees with me that Miss Umeoka is as charming as she is refreshing.

Park sitting was unpatriotic

The apure phenomenon is quite a revelation. The young Japanese who grew' up after the war go out of their way to violate the rigid code of behavior that guided the Japanese for centuries. Young adults oppose their parents directly, which may be natural elsewhere, but unheard-of in Japan until after the war. This rebellion is a popular theme in current movies and television dramas, in which the young rebels are presented with genial approval. The frustrated and confused parent whose world has gone topsy-turvy is a target for laughter. This change in the tradition of family discipline goes so far that, to me, Japanese children, who look so appealing, sound shockingly impudent when speaking to their elders. Yet this juvenile cockiness does not alarm many Japanese—any more than the other radical changes. They say, "After all. children should be allowed freedom.” The most noticeable apure innovation is the phenomenon the Japanese call avec. Before 1945 no young Japanese man and woman were seen together in the street. Under the puritanical militarist regime, this reached the point where even a married couple sitting in a park would be scolded by a policeman for committing the unpatriotic sin of “frivolousness." Now young couples are often seen on the Ginza streets and elsewhere, the young girl clinging to her escort's arm. 1 counted forty couples together one afternoon at dusk in the Imperial Palace grounds. Yet their decorous behavior would hardly shock Billy Graham, the way the unblushing goings-in in London's Regent Park did a few years ago.

Later 1 discover Setsuko Umeoka is not totally apure. In our exploration of Kyoto's amusement districts, she suddenly remarks. "That's awful." referring to a young couple in summer kimonos walking down the street arm-in-arm. gaily absorbed in each other. Is she against such familiarity among young people? I ask. "Oí course not." she says. "But they arc wearing the narrow sashes one only

wears with sleeping garments, not the proper wide sashes for yukatas. That kind of thing is very ill-bred.”

Part of the Kyoto program for tourists is the "home visit,” which is about the only way most foreigners can get inside a real Japanese home. 1 go only because I’m scheduled to— after all. I'm to visit my relatives later under less artificial conditions. The home is that of Shigeru Matsuoka, a retired businessman who owms several mines. Obviously the Matsuokas arc a prize exhibit—their guesthook includes such names as Governor David Lawrence of Pennsylvania and Pierre and Janet Berton of Toronto. But discovering that he doesn't have to speak English with me, the sixtyish Matsuoka-san is so relieved he unbends amazingly for an old-line Japanese. We stay a couple of hours longer than the prescribed period. He tells me that his retirement pastime is exchanging letters with his foreign-visitors, some of whom he regards as good friends, keeping up his many scrapbooks of correspondence and the mementos they send him, and studying about the places they come from. He knows a great deal about the U. S. He writes his letters in English, and injects so many English phrases into the conversation that I ask:

“Matsuoka-san, w'ere you ever overseas? Where did you learn your English?"

"No, 1 learned it here—but years ago. I had a Scottish engineer working for me when 1 w'as opening up mines in Korea. I used to practise on him, but he had such a funny accent.” Matsuoka-san guffawed.

"Your English must have been useful during the Occupation,” I said.

"Oh no, I didn't let on to the Americans that I could speak English,” Matsuoka-san laughed. “They beat us in the war: I wasn't going to help them. I guess it was about a year and a half after they came before they discovered it. One day I ran across an American officer I knew giving a Japanese a hard time — the trouble was that neither understood the other. 1 explained the matter to the officer in English, and he said, ‘Why didn't you tell us before that you speak the language?’ ”

Wc go on. Aoki and I, to Osaka, Kobe and Hiroshima. The westernization so apparent in Tokyo and downtown Kyoto is just as pronounced in these cities. Perhaps the clothes are not as smart, but it still takes a lot of looking to find traces of old Japan.

There’s one last hope in my search for the traditional ways of Japanese life that don't depend on shrines and temples preserved for the tourist trade and national pride. I go to Yonago, the city on the Japan Sea in Tottori prefecture, where my parents were born and where my father’s relatives live. They are farmers who also fish off the coast. The younger ones work for the railroad. The older ones have never seen Tokyo.

At Yonago. a band of relatives whisks me off to my aged aunt's home in the farming district. It is a handsome fifty-year-old house with traditional tiled roofs and sliding walls and its compound includes a pleasant garden that my aunt tends. 1 shed my shoes at the front stoop while bowing greetings to more relatives, and step up on the tatanii floors. The house is purely Japanese inside, too, a humbler version of the Kyoto inn. After I've had my first cup of tea, my aunt's thirtyish grandson, Teruo Kawabata, ushers me to the small bath house. It is about four in the afternoon and, as the guest, I am the first to use the bath that day. Teruo explains that the bath is called a kamahuro, or potbath and is common to the region.

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Instead of the traditional square wooden bath, it is a round vessel of heavy iron. I am to shed my clothes, and after the bath, to don a nemaki, a kimono-style sleeping garment with full sleeves and narrow belt. Teruo apologizes for not having a suitable yukata for me.

In the house the gathered relatives are waiting, sipping tea. But I know I’m not expected to rush. When I finally force myself out and into my new garment I think that the only

bad thing about a Japanese bath is that eventually one must get out of it.

Re-entering the house, I sit crosslegged on a cushion in the main room. A back-rest, the innovation which is now even more common in modern Japanese houses than chairs, helps support me through five hours of eating. drinking and talking.

Although it seems only a few years ago that we were sending them clothing and food parcels to help them through the postwar hard times, my relatives arc prosperous. The food that comes to the table is festive stuff —salads with fresh-caught shrimps, soup, several kinds of fish which I cannot identify, served raw or cooked (I’m told the fish were caught just that morning in the bay less than a mile away), and vegetables in abundance. The dishes come on in endless succession — at one point, fried eggs turn up garnished with lettuce and tomatoes. As we talk and drink the delicious Japanese beer. I get to know' these friendly folk—most of whom are uncles, aunts or cousins that I knew only from photographs. We talk about Toronto and the relatives who have gone recently to Canada, and about my father’s visit to Japan last February, the first time he'd seen his country in forty years. I am the first of his children they have met. Now' I begin to feel very much at home, basking in the warmth of their welcome.

But even here, I slowly begin to see the inroads of westernization. There is one chair in the house, at the desk my aunt's great-grandson uses while studying his first-grade lessons. Everyone wears western clothes except, as it happens, me, although most of the people are over fifty. In the very Japanese kitchen, there is no running hot water, but there is a tiny, electric washingmachine. There is a telephone in the house. In the room where we sit, we are cooled by a streamlined fan. In the next room is a TV set. Teruo tells me that my seventy-eight-yearold aunt is an avid TV fan. She prefers traditional Japanese dramas to popular variety shows, but one of her favorite programs is Wagon Train, dubbed in Japanese. The other Wagon

drain fan is Junichi, the seven-yearold first-grader. Next day I discover that he also happens to be a Popeye addict like my kindergarten son back in Toronto, except that Junichi knows Popeye by his Japanese voice, a good imitation of the “l-yam-whatI-yam” growl.

(It should be mentioned that not all people in Japan’s farming areas are as well off as my relatives. Other visitors I talked to later tell of villages with one phone among thirty families and no TV sets. Such places are dominated by a sense of inertia and a languor, I am told, that is the opposite of the hard-working top-of-theworld attitude of people I met in Yonago. )

Natural resources: young women

I return to Tokyo and investigate this Japanese westernization further. One young Japanese who spent some years in the States disagrees with the label. "It's not westernization, nor i? it Americanization. We prefer to call it modernization. It only seems western or American because we are following the lead of the United States who dominate world culture right now'."

Would the Japanese be "easternized" if an Eastern country were top dog?

1 recalled something Masayoshi Suzuki of Sony had said in my first week in Japan. "We Japanese aren't originators. We borrow ideas from elsewhere—and we’ve been doing that throughout our history. First it was from the Chinese, and since the Meiji Restoration in the last century, from the west. But we don't copy these imported ideas as they are—we adapt them in our own way and end up with a very Japanese result." His reference was to transistors which were first invented in Holland but brought to perfection in Japan. And to cameras and lenses, in which Japan has now wrested superiority from Germany. "You'll notice in both products we fall back on peculiarly Japanese resources—such as the young Japanese woman," said Suzuki. “She is naturally deft, so can skilfully handle tiny things like transistor parts. And she can work longer hours of tedious repetition on a production line than anyone else in the world. As well, thankfully for us, her labor cost is still low.”

Big attraction in a Tokyo suburb is a Disney picture

But I saw still other reasons for this westernization - modernization. Even in the suffocating August heat and humidity, the Japanese in the cities are a fiercely energetic people. They work hard, and they play hard. 1 got the feeling that if they wanted to meditate in a beautiful garden they would rush to get there. This remarkable energy also applies to the avid acceptance of new ideas. “If it’s new, the Japanese will like it,” one Japanese magazine editor told me. “1 know Americans are supposed to be like that, but they’re nothing compared to us. Then there’s the pressure of masu-komi (mass communications). In a small country like this, with television covering more than eighty percent of the population, a new word, fad or idea spreads through the nation in no time at all. The radio, newspapers and magazines add to this process.” The Japanese not only have ninety-eight percent literacy (second only to the Swedes), but judging from the throngs in every bookstore, and the reading done everywhere — on streets, in public transportation, in restaurants — they are the most voracious readers in the world.

But what about Japanese traditions what do the shrines and temples and Kabuki bring to our minds? Are they so fragile they can be cast aside so easily for these new ideas?

Dizzily changing façade

The example of Kyoto’s ornery Shigeru Matsuoka illustrates the Japanese attitude to the past. He refused to let the American occupation personnel know that he could speak English and be of help. Yet only a few years later, his great joy is in the friends he makes through his knowledge of the language—and most of them are Americans. The point is that the Japanese does not find this a contradiction. What is finished is finished. He lives for today. So if he turns himself around completely, he is doing what is normal—adjusting to change. And life, as he knows, is full of change.

My final conclusion is that this dizzily changing westernized façade of Japan is the real Japan. Twice it was suggested to me that the ideally Japanese gift to take to my wife was a new electric rice cooker. It is romanticizing to think that the great artifacts of the past, as treasured in Kyoto and elsewhere, have any significance to the modern Japanese. They are just museum pieces. The Japanese admire them but take no time to draw inspiration from them for the present.

I leave Japan with regret. My search for the real Japan seems at best a shallow stab. The only unshakable conviction 1 reached was that it is unwise to measure the Japanese by our standards just because their façade seems so much like ours. To my Tokyo aunt who came to sec me off at Haneda, I say my thanks, wish her good health and express the hope we will meet again. My flight is called.

I rush off with a last “Sayonara." “Bye. bye,” she says. "Bye. bye, Frank-san." ★