It's a clear night. My stomach hurt all day; last night I stayed in the office until the middle of the night --- missed the last train to the other side of the bay and everything. My friend drove over the bridge to pick me up.
In the morning, we go to the university botanical gardens, and I take home a small white narcissus arrangement that I wish my room were more in order to accommodate. We run into a few friends --- passionate about their acquisitions as well. We would fill our living rooms and stairwells with plants we hope would survive our busy lives.
My friend who got married and lived in Sweden for a few years is back and comes along to eat lunch and sniff wines and browse cheeses. Then Hungarian cakes and iced coffee, and groceries for the week.
The entire day I try to breathe deeply, but my shoulders feel pinched, head squeezed under a stack of books. I lie with my eyes closed and the windows open while Greg arranges his plants and pays the month's bills. After my nap I'm convinced that I feel better, but I stand to talk about dinner possibilities and immediately feel the weight again. Daylight is waning, and I'm now wishing for early morning activities like lying in the grass, walking along the coast with the sea air washing over my lungs.
The decision nearly kills us --- this happens every time. In one of the most epicurean saturated areas of the nation, we can never decide where to eat. My stomach is an undulating sea of discomfort, and I feel like nothing heavy, greasy, creamy, fried, spicy, but rather, something refreshing.
It takes a while for us to mutually admit that Cha Ya is a secret in the back of our minds, and when it comes forth we head out the door immediately. The streets are now illuminated by electric lights, and people are jumping in front of cars. Thankfully, there is room for two at the sushi bar.
The menu is just what I want to read. The entries even in text show the promise of cleansing my state of agitation. We order two iron pots of the *earth soup*, Agedashi Tofu, *Macha Green Tea*, and Cha Ya Delight.
A man grumbles next to us. The waitress comes from behind a curtain with a pile of bills on a tray and places it in front of him, takes his hand gently lays it on the pile. "Please remember to take your money."
His face is red and cut with drooping lines that lull his eyes asleep, dirt soaked jacket and hands and mess of dark hair covering his ears. He does not acknowledge the money, but grumbles again.
A few times he scraggles out the words, "Why would a child say that? Where would that come from?" A family of three sits next to him, the toddler daughter asking, "What did he say?" The father returns, "I don't know."
"Why would a child say that? Where would that come from?" I try to breathe in the steam of my green tea, my nose close to the blue scales trimmed by gold on the round cup. I feel the eyes of the cook looking on from the kitchen curtain, and hope that a scene does not occur.
In the back I wonder if instead of a steaming, clattering system of pots, pans, fires, and grease, there is instead a garden, where each ingredient is carefully plucked from the waters and the earth and placed in each vessel in meditation. I envision the hands stroking the enoki and shiitake mushrooms, daikon and burdock, ginkgo nuts, spinach and tofu, lotus root and flowercut carrots, placed into the iron vessel with the broth poured gently over --- two, side by side, in our separate states. It is almost the same dish but with brown rice, the Delight, but a complementary dish instead of repetition.
He falls in and out of sleep, and I fear making eye contact --- maybe he would ask the same question over and over of me. I wouldn't know what to say.
I take each sip slowly, pick up each morsel and place them into my mouth one at a time, meditating on the separate ingredients and secretly worrying that the man would be forced to leave at closing time. Sometimes I am like that --- almost asleep, yet frustrated and radiating, wanting to be left alone but not able to stand the solitude of private quarters.
I desperately do not want the other customers or restaurant staff to be angry, waiting for the end of it. I flash between this worry and the realization that my body is relaxing, my mind clearing, my stomach settling. The food is at the exact right pace, a wondrous balance of taste and clarity. I feel a wash of calm over my body, and I want to nap in a library with open windows, wear short sleeves in the wind, listen to soft songs with pedestrian sounds behind.
"Not yet . . . later," the owner says to the waitress, who asks in Japanese what they should do about the red-faced man now completely asleep in front of his empty dish. "He is okay."
Greg and I wind around the blocks of the dark neighborhood before getting into the car again. I wonder why a man can't be left to sleep over his grumbles without my worry. read more