“You know you want to model the kimonos” my boss, Nakayama-san, said with a twinkle in her eyes I was pretty sure I did not but Japanese relationships work differently to those at home , she is my boss, my superior. “No” was never an option. I gulped, blinked and mumbled the expected reply; “I would love to take the hour-long train journey for a Kamakura adventure.” Smiling mischievously she continued “can you also bring a friend or two?” Inwardly this struck me as pushing it. Obviously I could say nothing but the affirmative. My mind drifted to Serena, she was my only friend I could convince, maybe with a bribe..
The train rumbled beneath us as Serena stared darkly at me. I smiled, slightly remorsefully and offered her my peace offering, an onigiri, which is a sweet rice ball wrapped in seaweed. It did little to change her hangover, or mine for that matter. I did not even understand why I had been asked to model: after all, my physique could never be considered model standard. Furthermore I could not fathom why anyone would want a westerner posing in the quintessential Japanese traditional dress. Why would anyone want to see a blonde westerner posing in an iconic Japanese style? It seemed a frankly ludicrous concept to me, a delusion of expats who try desperately to blend into Japan. Unwillingly, it seems, I was joining them.
Little white plastic houses made way for tall brown or grey office buildings. As we left the cityscape behind, the harsh greys of office-buildings were eaten up by luxurious greens and earthy browns. Finally Kamakura revealed itself, nestled between the mountains and the sea. The train pulled into the station and I grinned as I unfolded the highly detailed hand drawn map created just for poor lost foreign souls like me who do not have a navigation system on their phones. As the train pulled into the station I saw the flicker of mobile phones all around me, calling up their maps application. Being a foreigner with no handle on Japanese technology yet, I countered with my well-used, highly detailed hand drawn map. Japanese streets do not have names and their buildings are similarly blank; often this lends its mystery to the directions my boss gives me. “Follow the long tree-lined avenue but do not go past the second tori (red shrine) gates. Pass the post office and turn left at the store” I always feel like Alice in Wonderland about to tumble down the rabbit hole.
The sensei padded her way towards us with clipped steps enforced by her narrow kimono,., My interest was piqued as I was shown about her house, the Japanese are often very private people and I had not seen too many houses.. There were two wooden Shinto shrines in her dining room adorned with mandarins, small branches and an array of pictures of her deceased husband and ancestors. A small bowl of salt stood to the side and I was delighted to see that she even kept a tiny traditional garden right outside the kitchen’s sliding glass window. Her home could have been in a Hans Christian Andersen story. She chatted animatedly, like a little house fairy, all the while nibbling on tiny sandwiches and flittering in and out of the room. Her gestures were precisely calculated and her purple shaded eyes batted like the wings of a butterfly. I could not for the life of me understand the formal Japanese she spoke but nodded every now and then; besides, my mouth was full, it would hardly have been proper to answer.
More kimono-clad cohorts came to the house ready to truss us into our kimonos. Serena and I both successfully navigated solo into a basic linen shirt and shorts. The piggy socks were next: the big toe is separated, for the appearance of porcine hooves. Craving the oblong shape provided by the correct tightening, one of the cohort was determinedly tying the silk second bathrobe-like layer with a cotton string . She proceeded to pull, tight, and slowly diminish any chance I had of breathing freely. I was not alone in my plight. I caught the shallow breathing of Serena being similarly constricted. The outer layer of the kimono was then draped over us both, and the tugging cheerfully continued. I stopped keeping track of new additions in a flurry of sashes and strings from some obscured drawer. By the time they finished, I could not bend to see my toes but sported a lovely sash around the waist, decorated with an elaborate twist in the back. It had taken three people over an hour to dress us.
Sensei declared she wanted to take pictures outdoors by the nearby shrine. Going out in public in my new attire was not my idea of a good time. However as she was another superior I did not have much choice. Precariously I placed myself atop the tabi traditional sandals I could see that this was going to be my workout for the day. Inclines in the streets and cracks on the pavement became real challenges as we joined the parade of clipped steps in narrow kimonos.. We arrived at an open shrine where a traditional Shinto wedding was taking place. The bride, in a white kimono consisting of over twelve layers of fabric, sat rigidly straight throughout the ceremony. I felt her pain: the weight of tradition must be hard to bear.
We alternatively paused at bridges and other sites so that pictures could be taken. It took a compliment from a complete stranger to finally quell my nerves and let me actually appreciate the traditional beauty I was wrapped in.. I still thought of myself as a pineapple, but one which looked the part, defying all expectations. As the six of us took our clipped steps home, I reflected on my insight into the traditional lost Japan I had always sought. All this time, it had been only an hour’s train ride away. At the sensei’s home, each layer of kimono fell to the floor, forming a pile around my aching feet. The kimono-clad cohorts sat around me, folding strings and sashes away in the appropriate way. The topic of their back and forth flew far above my limited language.
Tea brewed in the kitchen. Seasonal chestnut cakes were set on the table. In this picturesque lost Japan, I felt strangely at home.