There is a not so old parable about a Jewish Bubbeleh and her O-bá-san counterpart. The two grandmothers are getting to know each other before their grandchildren exchange vows.
“Tell me about your culture, about your traditions,” posits Bubbe.
“We are Buddhists,” offers Oba-san. “We believe that all Life is suffering.”
“Suffering?” quips Nanny. “You don’t know from suffering! I’ll show your suffering!”
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Tokyo is the most hamische hamlet on the planet.
Where else does everyone say “Good morning!” and actually really mean it? When I first arrived in Meguro Ward in 2001 I frequented the local kisaten (fancy, schmancy coffee canteen hawkishly managed by a Arabica roasting fanatic). I would zip past the touch-free glide panel door to secure a seat, a tincy-wincy and oh-so-flaky croissant and the world’s most perfectly crafted hand-blown Sumatra. The purveyor would always gift me with a soulful and swift bow coupled with a sweet “Ohaiyo gozaimasu!” (Good morning). And he said it with gumption for real!
In 2004 I left Japan. One day, I waltzed in and declared that I was heading back to the White West. The coffee guy didn’t see it coming. Same bow, maybe a little deeper, more deliberate, the way Chasidim daven on the Days of Awe. No tears, but almost.
The dude was pure gold . . .
. . . just like his city.
