by Ioana Lee
The Cherry Blossom Rarely Smiles
…a memoir
by Ioana Lee
Dedication
To my parents, whom I thank from the bottom of my heart for gifting me with two wonderful sisters, and also for loving me when perhaps even God wouldn't have found it easy to do so.
The Cherry Blossom Rarely Smiles is the true story* of a young Romanian woman who marries a Japanese aristocrat from a famous and wealthy family. Their intriguing tale of love, disappointment, success and failure is described with sense of humor, brutal honesty, and genuine bicultural suffering. Ken and Ioana’s passionate narrative will take you from Romania to Japan on a journey full of adventure, cultural misunderstandings, self- discovery, alienation and final acceptance.
(*The names of the individuals in the story – except that of Ioana – have been changed.)
This book was first published in Romania and in the Romanian language in 2008 under the name “Ai suru – A iubi.” The second printing was released in 2010. It was widely acclaimed by Romanian critics. We hope you will enjoy the English translation as much as the Romanian version was heralded.
© Copyright 2013 . All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, illegally down loaded and stored, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
Amazon Edition
I sit on tatami,
I drink o-cha,
I am a geisha in my own house
I will never forget the day when Ken came and told me that Otoosan (his father) was inviting me to Japan for a month long vacation. A month in Japan? The simple thought of this brought tears to my eyes, in an emotional overflow that, most likely, I will never be able to express in words. I was in my senior year in college, studying Japanese, and my dream of visiting the country whose language I was learning was about to come true. This thought haunted me: was I really ready to know Japan? Was I capable of confronting a culture, a civilization, and a world that I felt so attracted to, in a bizarre and almost agonizing way?
After two months of restlessness, and sleepless nights, of high expectations and of reticence, the day of December 27, 1995 finally came. I didn't sleep all night. Neither did Ken. I was frightened in anticipation of the trip: the plane ride, the distinguished family that I was going to have the pleasure to meet, the Japanese lifestyle, the eating of raw fish using chop sticks... An ocean of thoughts was flooding my mind and soul. Ken wasn't able to get any sleep because he was trying to calm me down, but I could sense the doubtfulness in his eyes and voice. I could feel that he, himself, wanted to calm down. Deep in my heart I knew that for him this was a very important moment as well... a conclusive and non-conventional one: to introduce to his noble Japanese family his foreign girlfriend.
We were taking the plane from Bucharest to Milano, where we were going to spend a day and a night to go shopping. Ken was wearing clothes made only by famous designers. Slowly but surely I was going to learn more about these coveted brands, and eventually even model them. The inevitable 12-hour flight from Milano to Tokyo was coming up the next day. This first plane trip, over such a long distance, was very hard to bear, especially not fully knowing what to expect once I landed at Narita, Tokyo’s main airport. Finally we landed. I didn't eat and sleep for 36 hours. I was drained, scattered and afraid. I got off the plane, inhaled deeply and said: "Konnichi wa, Nihon!" (Hello, Japan!) Shortly after landing, I suddenly realized that I wasn't just in a foreign country—I was on a different planet. This was only the beginning. I was emotionally bombarded with feelings and sensations that I've never had before, all of which overwhelmed me. Yet I took comfort in the words of Oliver Goldsmith, who said: Every situation in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures.
I spent the first night at Ken’s uncle's house, which was also a Buddhist temple. At the time, I wasn't aware that the same room that hosted me on my first night in Japan would become my place of refuge and meditation in the midst of sublimely grotesque chaos. For years at least; perhaps, even for a lifetime, not even the Japanese family, would have guessed that the guest room would soon become "the room of Ioana-san".
"My" room in the Buddhist temple was on the first floor, away from everything and everyone. It was located in Tokyo, next to Ueno Park. It included the whole floor: a bathroom, a bedroom and a narrow hallway overlooking an exquisite garden that was also partially a cemetery. The bedroom was a large room (a very large one for Japan); bright, traditional but modern at the same time, just like this 'Rising Sun' country, of samurai, of geisha—and of gaijins (foreigners) in love with this culture, which often creates the feeling of an existential and social claustrophobia.
On the floor there was a tatami, and the furniture included a small table and a painting of an old Buddhist monk. Other than that, everything was empty space, Zen, avoiding the feeling of limitation through the placement of extra objects (based on Bushido, a Japanese code of conduct). My host prepared the bed for me on the tatami. It was a thick mattress covered by a sheet and multiple other layers of beautifully colored fabric, similar to fine towels. On top there was a quilt with subtle pastel flowers. The pillow was small, filled with rice instead of feathers. Everything smelled like fresh and expensive perfume, as if wearing the signature of Christian Dior. Later on I realized that everything that could be found in a Japanese house, from perfumes to towels, plates, rugs, brushes, etc. reflected favored brand names. On the "bed" there was a yukata (a thin and plain house kimono) for sleeping. I changed my clothes and found my place in my Japanese nest. It was the first time when I had the weird and vivid feeling after such a long and fatiguing trip, after many restless moments, questions, uncertainty, and an endless search of my own individuality that I had finally arrived HOME.
There I was... home! I was thinking of my family back in Romania, the people who had raised, loved and cared for me. Now, at 20 years old, they had released me so that I could journey to the place that I now feel and believe I belong to... "Uchi ni tsuitte yokatta!"- "it feels good to be home.” I fell asleep. I don't remember ever sleeping so deeply and waking up with such an appetite for life. Unfortunately, when I woke up, because of the time difference, it was night time in Japan. The room was dark and I was stumbling around searching for the switch to turn on the light. I remembered that the light could be turned on with a remote control that was close to my bed. Unable to find it, I headed towards the door to use the bathroom. Unfortunately again, in my attempt to find the handle—nonexistent in most Japanese rooms—I broke the thin rice paper, which was actually the folding door.
Three years later this story was going to repeat itself, with a twist. I was coming from Romania to visit my adopted country with my little white puppy. We both went upstairs. I arranged for a comfy bed for her as well, and I explained to her that I'm going downstairs and I'm not able to take her with me, but I'll be back shortly. Kiku (chrysanthemum) is a well-mannered puppy that knows many things, including when we all talk to her in Japanese. Knowing that she understands everything, I left her behind and went downstairs. Just a few seconds after I left, my sweet Kiku was running after me on the stairs of the Buddhist temple. I was certain that I shut the door after me, so clearly she went through it (the paper door.)
The feeling of deep embarrassment appeared for me that first time in Japan, because of my awkwardness; from there on this feeling came back multiple times. After realizing what I did I wasn't able to go back to sleep. I was thinking with uneasiness at the grace that the Japanese people have when walking through the house, at all the customs that had to do with the opening and closing of doors, wearing slippers only outside the room,
etc. In the morning I told Ken what I did. Initially he was shocked, but shortly after we both started laughing. Yet just a few seconds later he became nervously serious. "We can't tell anyone about this. What you did is terrible."
I noticed that he wasn't joking. I froze. "Let's fix it with some tape" I told him. He thought this was a good idea. Our plan worked, even though for someone with a refined sense, the image of the door looked grotesque. It looked as if the one thing that was missing on the door was my handwriting: "Ioana was here."
After having breakfast with the whole family, Ken borrowed one of his uncle’s many luxury cars so that he could show me Tokyo, the city that was going to steal my heart forever. How could I speak impersonally about this city? How could I speak about the nights on the Rainbow Bridge, about its many uniquely enchanting areas—Ginza, Aoyama, Shinjuku, Roppongi, Harajuku, Shibuya—without feeling that my heart is splitting into a million pieces? That my stomach is shrinking, my eyes are getting wet, and an excruciating pain is taking over my soul? How could I possibly explain missing it so madly? How can I explain this SABISHII (this solitude)?
Wherever you go…
“Wherever you go, there you are!” The first time I read Dale Carnegie’s quote I started laughing. It is self-explanatory and logical that wherever you go, there you are. Only now though, I’ve come to realize what this quote really means. Now, when I’m here, alone in my apartment in Bucharest, lonely in the night, solitary in my own country, which I feel that ostracizes me because I’m different, because I’ve changed… I’m reading the letters sent to my parents back home when I was in Tokyo. I was writing about my homesickness, about missing them enormously and about the immense distance between us. Now I know deep in my heart that my destiny will be forever torn between two continents, two cultures, civilizations, families and languages, which I’ll love with the same intensity for my entire life. Without them I’d be different, poorer and more skewed. A verse from Romanian author Arghezi comes to mind: “Oh God how lonely and innermost I feel.”
Ken and I went driving in Tokyo. It was hard for me to grasp that people drove on the left side of the road. I had the constant feeling that the cars going the opposite way would smash into us at any second. I was next to the man I loved, in a luxurious car, speaking a wonderful language and discovering a beautiful city. I was painfully happy and dangerously young.
Tokyo is a mesmerizing mixture between the traditional and the modern. The most expensive city in the world, it has large boulevards with shops featuring luxurious items at exorbitant prices; big and flashy advertisements and elevated streets coexist harmoniously with small traditional restaurants located on narrow and crowded streets. When you refer to Tokyo it is hard to say downtown. It’s hard to name some places as being downtown and others being at the periphery. The city in itself is a huge downtown.
Even so, the most well known areas are the Hachiko subway exit and Shibuya with its famous Store 109. These are two popular places where most foreigners and Japanese people meet. Shibuya is mostly an area for young, nonconformist people with blond or brown colored hair, adventurous hairstyles, dressed very colorfully and in fashion, speaking slangy Japanese into minuscule cell phones accessorized with all sorts of lights and cartoon characters. Here, the classic ideal of Japanese beauty is totally rebelled against. The young girls have their hair dyed in several blond shades (blond hair symbolizes the devil in Japan), while their skin looks like dark chocolate from all the time spent in tanning salons. It’s hard to imagine a very tanned yet blond Japanese woman wearing black eye shadow, fake eyelashes and pearled white lipstick, which contrasts with the color of her teeth, which usually aren’t very healthy. Yet the philosophy behind this type of appearance is to try to be different and to show off. This happens especially if one doesn’t match the ideal of Japanese beauty, which generally requires one to be tall, very thin, with fine bones and white skin, big dark eyes, long eyelashes and pronounced eyebrows. A prominent nose and long, dark hair are also part of the requirements. How diverse is the world we live in!
Roppongi area is similar to Shibuya for gaijins (foreigners), only it’s much crazier. It is best known for its international fashion agencies and especially for Almond café, one of the most famous meeting points in Tokyo. Generally, when you want to meet a gaijin (foreigner) you tell him “let’s meet on Friday evening at 8 o’clock in front of Almond.” The challenge occurs on Friday evening when you get in front of the Almond you’re greeted by a sea of agitated people, all looking everywhere trying desperately to find the person(s) that they were supposed to meet. All this happens in a multi-national-faced crowd. Cell phones are ringing off the hook and the dialogue is similar for everyone, regardless of the language:
“Where are you?”
“I’m here.”
“Well I’m here too, right in front of Almond. Can you see me?”
“No!”
“God, it’s sooo crazy around here… Can you please talk louder?”
Ultimately, after long searches, everyone meets each other and the restaurants, bars and clubs are conquered in a blink of an eye. Most of them are young foreigners, with families that they miss many miles away, yet with a deep emotional attachment to Japan. Most of them speak several foreign languages fluently. I find myself among them… always lost.
“Old remembrance”
I met Ken in Bucharest at the beginning of my second year in college. I was studying Japanese and English. Since I was very young I had been strongly attracted to Asia, especially to Japan. I desperately wanted to become a Ninja, yet I was embarrassed to admit it, knowing that everyone would make fun of me and not take me seriously. They would have been right. Anyway…foreign languages always fascinated me. Umberto Eco said, “The first duty of an intelligent person is to learn foreign languages.” I’ve done it and I’ll always keep on doing it because I love people.
I love the world in its dazzling diversity. I also like to talk and socialize a lot. I don’t know if this is because I’m a woman or because I have something to say, or because I enjoy hearing myself talk. Perhaps…for all these reasons put together. Regardless of the reasons, when meeting people from all over the world I don’t feel comfortable using only borrowed languages, the so-called international languages. They are far from perfect when it comes to rendering the richness and charm of a conversation, of words and idioms belonging to many other beautiful and unusual languages.
For one year I studied Japanese language and culture with a great professor, without many research materials and dictionaries. I wasn’t able to communicate, write or read fluently in Japanese, yet I was coming very close to its essence. One day I discovered the book Bushido by Shin Kurosawa, translated into Romanian in 1929. It fascinated me from the first sentences. The writing style, ideas – everything -- amazed me. I was extremely curious to find out as much as I could about the author, what other masterpieces he wrote and who he was in real life.
Hence, I found myself in love with Shin Kurosawa, secretly wishing to become a Ninja. This deep emotional connection with the personality of this highbrow diplomat was later confirmed through my studies. My graduation paper was about his literary work.
One day our professor, Vlad, offered us tickets to a piano concert on behalf of the Japanese Embassy, to be held at the Academy of Music in Bucharest. The performance was to be by a Japanese woman pianist. I was extremely excited about this cultural event, along with the opportunity to meet Japanese people.
It was a beautiful autumn day, November 23, 1993. When I awoke that morning, I had no idea that my life was about to radically change course in just a few hours. I dressed elegantly and styled my very long, dark hair. I innocently looked at myself in the mirror, proud to be a 20-year-old woman, winner of my school’s Miss University competition. My father had just bought me a long and beautiful yellow coat, with black embroidery and a turned-down collar. I sat on the edge of the bed in “my” loft, located in a villa on Sofia Street, waiting for my uncle. Not
knowing how to navigate the streets of Bucharest I had asked my uncle to come pick me up and take me to the Conservatory, where the performance would be held. I felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed at the fact that I’d see real Japanese people, not just the samurais that I had seen on television. Before our departure I tried to remember some phrases in Japanese.
Shortly after, I left the house escorted by my uncle. Once we arrived at the Conservatory I met my colleagues. They were all beautifully dressed. We were all hyper excited at the thought that we’d get to be in the same room and breathe the same air as the native Japanese citizens. We entered the concert hall and found some seats on the same row. Not too long after, a distinguished man, the Japanese Embassy’s cultural representative to Romania, came to us, saying in polite, humble and accurate Romanian that those seats were reserved for the Embassy’s employees.
We apologized and left the seats. We found some other seats on a row much closer to the stage. Slowly the room started to fill. My colleagues and I took up almost the entire row, yet on my left there were two seats available, which soon were occupied by two young Japanese men. Out of curiosity, I had the constant impulse to turn and look at them. I held off, pretending to be relaxed. My colleagues were feeling the same way, but didn’t dare to look either. We were just looking at each other, too excited to even breathe.
