THE SOUTHERN CROSS

Life had been moving slowly, and the emptiness without family and friends weighed heavily on me.  I was losing weight, not a bad thing, but too quickly; and I was also losing energy.  I was putting up a good fight, and wearing a smile, but apparently others, like the Japanese staff at the office could see that I was not holding up well.  At home my sons heard what I thought I was covering up and so did my friends from the office, Margaret, Pam and Jean.  I would alternate calls, thinking they would not realize how often I was calling.  I wrote long letters.  I had always called my mother weekly but she urged me to make the calls shorter.  My first phone bill was $300.00 which was more than a little over the top.  I didn’t know they all saw through the act and knew I was having a rough time of it. In the years to come I would look back on this period and call it the Lowest of Lows, but by then I could also look back and say that my trip included not only those, but also my Highest of Highs.

Ishizono San offered to drive Brian and me around the peninsula where we would be visiting both junior and senior high schools.   We left Kaseda, headed south to Makurazaki, then followed the coast through Bonotsu, winding back to Kaseda through Kasasa and Oura Cho.  We must have put on 50-100 miles, sometimes seemingly hanging over the mountain side. Most of the scenery below was rocky outcrops overlooking the East China Sea.  The other side of the road was mountains.  It was breathtaking. And if you watch “You Only Live Twice,” a James Bond film where Sean Connery does not look Japanese, you can see this and Sakurajima, the live volcano in Kagoshima City. (full info on the volcano in a coming post.)

Due to my seniority, I got the seat of honor in the back.  Except I still get car sick.  I could hardly walk when I got out of the car and collapsed in my apartment.  We had both been hungry, but I cued Brian to please beg off of any dinner offer, despite the fact he must have been starving as it was well past dinner.  I needed to go lie down before I lost it, ALL.  I would find out in a couple of months from Ishizono San that he had feared I would leave the program early.  Again, he must have seen clearly how I had faded in the back seat.  I never realized how much he worried about me, and that also it would have reflected badly on him because I was his responsibility in the Japanese sense.  Centuries of culture dictates that they must take their responsibilities seriously.

But I had never let myself think about quitting before the contract year ended.  I don’t really think I let that enter my mind, but I always thought about how many more days it would take for the year to come to an end. I tried to boost myself physically and searched for more things in the store that I could identify and easily cook in the heat. Even the milk in Japan tastes different.  I have always drunk milk with my meals, but their pasteurization process is a little different, and I never did get used to the milk.  I started making French toast that I could eat later, even cold for lunch. I made egg salad sandwiches and ate them with avocado. I made simple creamed soups. I liked the fruit. I tried to make simple stews, but it was too hot for that.  Did I mention I have never really cared for rice?  I think it was Brian who asked why I would even think of coming to Japan when I said that.  Good question, but it came a little too late.

Again I turned to Tazuko san.  A really great friendship began with her and her husband Nariaki san.  They saved me more than once, coaxing me to go here or there, try this place to eat, go for coffee, go to their shop and have a cup of tea.  And I did.  I often walked over to their shop after the office and later after school.  They always kept the electronic dictionary and the largest book I had ever seen, all in English, on the counter in the shop, about all living things as well as history and maps so we could look up and learn all kinds of things.  I always had to admire that Nariaki was always studying and learning.  He loved nature and all in it.

 

                                        The wonderful Master sat for a moment.

Survival was assured when Tazuko took me across the street from her shop to eat at the Southern Cross.  I never learned the owner’s name, but we called him Master.  He was a small man with a young boy’s smile, but probably my age or older.  He had been a cook on a merchant ship and sailed the world.  He came back to his hometown and opened the “Southern Cross.”  To him it must have meant memories of his sailing days, to me it meant Crosby, Stills and Nash singing one of my favorite songs.

         “When you see the Southern Cross for the first time,

          You realize now why you came this way.

‘Cause the truth you might be running’ from is so small,

But it’s as big as the promise,  - the promise of the coming day.

…….I have my ship and all her flags are a flyin’, she is all that I have left,  - and music is her name…”

The key to my physical survival turned out to be food my system tolerated, western style.  And Master served it on his limited menu.  He only served a few items, but they were all perfect.  His restaurant looked French, all new, with black and grey contemporary furnishings, and it was spotless, with seating at a bar or at tables. Beautiful large wood carvings of women and dancers from Bali graced the bar. It was classy and comfy all at the same time.  Jazz music was always playing softly, and behind the bar were 3 huge tanks of large, flat silver dollar fish gliding through tall seaweed.  A few really large plecostomus, fish that clean the glass from the inside always stuck to the sides, wriggling slowly.  I could watch quietly, wait for my food, and exchange a few words with the Master.  

Sometimes I ate with Tazuko or Nancy or Brian.  We three ALTs were all starting to branch out a little.  Brian paired off with Mark who after a time of researching the laws and documents needed, would purchase a car and freedom out of town.  Although Mark was nearby, his town was even smaller and didn’t have the restaurants and shops that Kaseda did. Nancy was getting out and about with a young woman from her office.

The Master’s food was divine.  He knew my order because I started going in 2 or 3 times a week and always took the apple tea by Fauchon, imported from France, the shrimp and broccoli gratin with fettuccine in a perfect sauce, with salad, one slice of garlic bread and usually dessert. Dessert was always a tough choice between perfectly prepared flan or ice cream sundae, choice of ice cream and be-decked with fruit in season, banana, kiwi, orange, apple, pear or strawberry topped with a squirt of chocolate and a squirt of a fruit sauce topped with a larger dollop of whipped cream.  Sometimes if I chose the flan he added a small scoop of chocolate ice cream to go with it.  He spoiled me and I appreciated it.

One thing so perfect about this place was the portion sizes.  The gratin had 3 shrimp, 3 pieces of broccoli and maybe a cup of noodles.  The sundae was small but prepared right in front of you, and very precisely.  Everything was served on real china and the specialty teas and coffees were served in various European style fancy porcelain cups and saucers with tiny teaspoons.  The second thing that was so great was that it was affordable, only about $12.00 for the whole meal.

Truly, this master chef with his immaculate restaurant had gathered all the ingredients that allowed me to find a sanctuary that soothed me and soothed my digestive system.  The road to recovery was a small, quiet eating place called the "Southern Cross."   I took every friend that came to visit me there to give him as much business as I could; it was like my home away from home and even in winter still only a short walk away.

I would like to invite readers to leave comments!