kathennessy

I have had two barbecue experiences so far, one with a group of former college friends, and one more recently with two Japanese friends and another international student. I have done many things in Japan- visited temples, offered coins at shrines, biked by the Kamogawa River, attended university classes, ate out at restaurants with Japanese students, frequented bars and clubs, ridden a seemingly infinite number of trains and buses, attended festivals, and enjoyed live music- but despite having all of these distinct memories in Japan, the ones that have thoroughly cleansed my eyes veiled with worry and anticipation for an unrealized future have been my experiences at barbecues with Japanese friends.

During Golden Week, a week at the end of April and beginning of May in which four national holidays are celebrated within one week, I went to the rural town of Tokushima, known for its fried fish, nori, and energizing ocean views. I was invited along to have a barbecue with a Japanese friend’s college friends, who still live in the city where they all did undergrad and graduate school together. We started the day of the barbecue at the grocery story, buying ebi, cow tongue, shrimp, fried sakana, vegetables, soba, and most importantly, Asahi beer and lemon sours. We switched cars to a van, in which half of us carpooled with all the groceries, the other half waiting for our arrival further into the countryside in a home wrapped simply with cement and situated inside a wide front yard shared with an orange tree, and full of the warmth of dark wood floors and walls, deep emerald tiles, family pictures, and children’s books.

Upon our arrival, we exchanged greetings, introductions, and omiyages (souvenirs), after which all the men promptly moved inside to begin preparing the dishes. I naively followed behind and asked to help them until I was told to join the other women in the yard, where we would start drinking and lounging under the tent, hiding from the sharp and incessant sun. I have been grateful time and time again for the kindness extended to me by Japanese people who communicate with me, for their patience and interest in me, their determination to help me understand and bring me along even if I can’t speak their language fluently. Outside, I talked with the women, one named Kaide, who was particularly excited to meet me and playfully teased by the others for being the most interested in English out of the whole group: although she couldn’t speak it, she had the language “burning in her heart.”

We first started with the cow tongue, distributing bowls of Japanese barbecue sauce to dip everything in, wooden chopsticks, and more beer. The men cooked on the grill under the tent, sitting around it on benches and camping chairs, watching each piece cook and delivering it hot and sizzling to the women sitting around the table. I was surprised by the distinct separation of the men and women at some points, even once being told to leave the seat I was in and go to the other tent with the women after I didn’t realize that all of them had slowly migrated and formed two groups. Yet, I was more surprised by just how much food was cooked and eaten. Japanese proportions are undeniably smaller than what I am used to being served, but I ended up being just as full by the middle of the event, if not more stuffed than I have ever been after a meal in the US. We would eat one piece at a time, but so frequently, with so many different kinds of meat and fish and vegetables, that I had to firmly reject offers to try more dishes multiple times on account of a stomach that could not physically fit any more food. I found the cow tongue and yakisoba to be my favorites of the day.

Table strewn with drinks and groceries in Tokushima

Afterwards, we talked some more, exchanging slang and colloquial phrases in each other’s languages. The favorites were “just a minute” and “bless you,” which we used throughout the entire day, laughing every time someone said one. We left on a tiny, single car train, reeking of smoked meat and sunscreen, watching the golden landscape soften and cool and flow under the glass of our window. Our journey back took 6 hours on the bus because of Golden Week traffic. We returned to Kyoto thoroughly exhausted, nourished, sad, and wholly fulfilled.

Saying goodbye to Tokushima and new friends

My second barbecue experience was more recently, on Lake Biwako, at a restaurant that rents out grills and utensils on the beach. We sat at a picnic table with a small grill built in the center of it, shaded beneath a white-wooded overhang just a few steps above a beach of smoothed pebbles and short grasses. We made cow tongue again, because I requested it, as well as cabbage, peppers, onions, squid, sausage, and other kinds of beef, such as shoulder and thigh. The thigh was the most delicious, as it was juicy and tender within minutes of being put on the grill. This time, I actually cooked some, which made eating it much more enjoyable, as well as the conversation. We shared stories of our time abroad so far and got to hear more about the Japanese friends’ relationship and funny memories together. We naturally paired our lunch with beers and lemon sours again, accidentally buying more than we could finish and having to lug the cans for fifteen minutes on our walk back to the train station.

From the station, we went to another beach, were we swam and and felt the chill of evening descend from the branches of the imposing pine trees above us to our brittle hair and aching feet, sensitive from the icy lake. We jumped in one more time before we left for the evening, jittering and shrieking at the electrifying temperature. All four of us slept on the long train ride back to Kyoto, nodding our heads heavy with memories and sunlight, and briefly opening our eyes to catch other travelers observing our wholesome sight: two foreigners and two Japanese nationals, slightly wet, red cheeked, windblown, and napping.

I have loved sightseeing on my own, but I can’t say that I have loved it more than the simple Japanese barbecue with friends. There is something entirely satisfying about eating your food right as you cook it- and of course, the company that comes along with it. There is not a defined eating time, where all the dishes are finally presented after being painstakingly prepared and timed for hours, where everyone sits down at once to participate in the main event. Rather, the main event is everything that comes with and between the eating. There is no grand beginning or end, no set destination, no pressure, no timing. The intuitive enjoyment of the company around you and the ease of conversation of this kind of gathering have been my favorite experiences in Japan so far. Part of why it feels so unique to the American barbecues I have been to might be the fact that I am just passing by, feeling out and collecting memories, speaking a different language, viewing identities with wider eyes and more sensitive ears, intersecting with lives and stories, and leaving drops of myself within their waters.

There is a special place for sightseeing and solo adventuring, but something that Japan has taught me is that what makes a study abroad experience is the people, and only them. There is no inanimate part of the culture that can be separated from the people, and nothing to be enjoyed without these moments of simple conversation (and delicious food). Uncomplicated moments of easy company and cross-cultural kindness have deepened my experience here in ways that I probably can’t yet verbalize. The memories of them will root and grow within my heart for the rest of my life.

I’ve found that culture shock is more tricky than I imagined. It is a rope slipping through sweaty fingers; there are many moments when I think I’ve grasped it, only to realize it is slipping from me again, creating more tears and discomfort. This image isn’t particularly pleasant, but neither is the image of transformation!

When I first arrived, I didn’t feel anything that I thought I could label culture shock, so I was a little confused about what I was supposed to be feeling. Then, after some weeks, I thought culture shock was the intense discomfort that every day tasks required, and the desire to avoid even simple things, like going to a convenience store. Then, I thought that culture shock was the inability to read people’s personalities through a simultaneous cultural/language barrier. I couldn’t understand if people liked me or if they were just being polite, I didn’t know how to joke or receive jokes, and I didn’t know “what kind of person” anyone was because I could not use any familiar judgments or signals (which with time I realized is actually more positive than anything: I lost the ability to impose preconceived judgments onto people and began to see them with what felt like “fresh” eyes and an open mind). Along with this, I thought that culture shock was a feeling of loss- pieces of your personality, values, and humor, are all trapped in a cultural and linguistic limbo that cannot penetrate an air too thick for its narrowly defined edges.

But soon, I started to see myself from beyond the borders of my new memory, from which an entire ocean lies to cleanse, where my self is not a product of an eternal essence belonging to me, but a wet piece of clay that has been dredged from its bed and lovingly molded anew in the warmth of movement. I have always equated my “greatness,” or the pursuit of it, to an expense, a cost, or a sacrifice. I did not see how much of my self was sunken into my environment- the river refracted the light- until I could finally see how the river carved the bank from above its surface, now sizzling upon a yellow boulder under the sun. My origin definite, but my shape’s formation reliant on its relative position.

From the bed of the river, it was impossible to see how much my notion of self and happiness were steeped in liberalism and the desire for expedition. I’ve never seen myself as a staunch individualist, but from the boulder, I realize that I am accustomed to taking more than I give- that what can make me great is different from what makes me happy. My future isn’t as clear to me anymore.

Culture shock is solidifying to me that change is pain. Every day, I think I finally understand what I was told about this experience, and how hard it could be, but I am always proved wrong in ways I couldn’t even imagine! It excites me to think of what else there is to hold up and turn under the sun, to see in a new light. I have never felt so estranged from myself and yet so close to that something that has been waiting for me to finally turn around and greet it.

My 21st birthday at Sanzen-In Temple, Ohara

Author: kathennessy

Japanese BBQ

Existing Between Cultures