Sabbatikos

For years, Japan was a steady part of my working life. I managed a small team there, and I loved both the team and the opportunity they gave me to travel regularly to Japan and develop a deep appreciation for the culture. Tokyo became familiar enough that I always looked forward to returning.

Unfortunately, work does what work does. Organizations reorganize, roles shift, responsibilities change, and new opportunities emerge. Eventually, I found myself no longer managing this great team, and my regular trips to Japan came to an end. But before that chapter closed, I had the chance, nearly two decades ago, to extend one of those business trips into a family vacation.

Clara was about six years old when Tawny and I brought her to Japan at the tail end of one of my business trips. We spent a few days exploring Tokyo before continuing on to Kyoto for a short weekend.

On that trip, one of my employees had a daughter about Clara’s age, and the two girls spent a day together at the Studio Ghibli Museum. They couldn’t speak to one another. Clara knew no Japanese, and her new friend, Marika, knew no English. But it didn’t matter. They held hands all day and found common understanding in Totoro, Kiki, Calcifer, and the soot sprites. To Clara, Japan felt like a memory from a Miyazaki film. Aside from a trip to Sanrio Puroland to meet Hello Kitty, those were among the few memories of Japan she had.

Eighteen years later, we somehow find ourselves in Japan again with adult Clara and her boyfriend Ian. For Clara, and especially for Ian, it is a first visit. This time, we planned to revisit some of my familiar haunts in Tokyo, spend more time exploring Kyoto, and venture to new places such as Nara and Osaka, with Clara now in charge of navigating us through Tokyo with Google Maps, Google Translate, with her knack for researching the on-trend right places to visit.

Tawny and I decided to try Alaska Airlines’s new nonstop service to Tokyo, while Clara and Ian flew Japan Airlines from Los Angeles. Through some combination of airline scheduling and transpacific miracles, our two planes landed at Narita within about thirty minutes of each other. We easily found one another, connected with our driver, and made the hourlong trip from Narita to our hotel in Shinagawa.

To minimize jet lag, we decided to head out for a walk and find something to eat, forcing ourselves to stay awake until at least 9 p.m. Clara had done her research and thought she had found a well regarded but tiny ramen place nearby. We walked a few blocks from the hotel before the directions sent us down a dark alley. In almost any other country, I probably would have said no. But Japan felt so safe that we did not give it much thought.

There were no obvious businesses in sight, and then the directions sent us down another alley off the first alley, ending at a deserted dead end. There, a small staircase led up into what looked like someone’s home. Instead, it turned out to be the tiny ramen shop, Chukasoba Waka Tokyo.

We stepped inside and immediately encountered our first challenge: an electronic ordering kiosk entirely in Japanese. Google Translate came to the rescue and helped us fumble our way through the menu, selecting such translated options as “whimsical beer” and “Ramen Special Broth,” before printing our tickets and handing them to an employee.

The restaurant itself was tiny, with perhaps four tables and a few additional stools at a counter. We sat down, and moments later enormous bowls of homemade ramen appeared, along with our beers. We poured for one another in the Japanese tradition, raised our glasses, and said, “Kanpai!”

And just like that, we were back in Japan. Warm broth, silky noodles, cold beer, and comforting food wrapped around us like a welcome home. It felt as though Japan herself had opened her arms and embraced our return.