Ode to my Little Black Notebook

"Look over there," my son quickly whispered to me. "No, wait. Don't look. OK. Look. No, wait, don't look. Look, now! No, don't look. OK, look, but please don't be obvious."
"What exactly am I looking at?" I whispered back at my son as I rubbed my sore neck.
"Mike Lowell, Mom," my son whispered. "It's Mike Lowell! Over there. You know, The Mike Lowell from the Boston Red Sox. Dad spotted him. Quick! Look now! Oh no. That was a little too obvious."

As a tall man in Tokyo, my husband enjoys a few extra height perks: he can quickly spot open seats on the subway, he can efficiently and confidently weave us through the crowds, he can get us a comfortable corner table at a favorite soba shop(named, to our delight, Soba Chafe)...and he can spot a major league baseball player at Easter Mass.

I really wish I had worn red stockings.

"Psst, Mom," my son whispered to me a few hymns later. "Do you have anything to write on? After mass, I think I will try to ask for his autograph."

Let's see...what do I have to write on? I've got receipts from the grocery store. I've got my paper point cards. I've got a pack of tissues. I've got Kit Kat candy wrappers. I've got a metro map. I've got a small box of tylenol. I've got yen. I've got it.

"My little black book," I said to my son and husband once mass ended. "I've got my little black book with me."

My little black notebook. Oh, how I love my little black book. This gift from a friend in the States has been with me since Day One in Tokyo. It may be a pocket sized journal, but this humble, discreet diary has got it all: my first very, very, very, very detailed train route in Tokyo when I was terrified I was going to get lost; the address of my first friend who I met the day I registered my family at the town office (actually called "alien registration"); the name of a favorite hamburger place that I heard from another mother while on a morning walk; directions to the nearest 100 Yen store where I purchased inexpensive glasses before our shipment of goods arrived; a scribbled map to my first Tokyo Starbucks; a starred subway exit number to get to the movie theatre; a circled note to find the nearest ATM; plus, many quirky translations, noteworthy numbers and subway stories.

And, so here it is, an Easter Sunday entry. Three pages away from the word "platypus" (don't ask); two pages away from the address to a favorite kimono store (haven't gone yet); one page away from my scribbled notes on some interesting cultural observations (what's the deal with the armless, legless tumbling doll?):

a slanted, a cursive, a very kind

Mike Lowell 25


Go Sox.
Go Little Black Book.

The Dip

I looked at the woman behind the desk.
She looked at me.
I looked at the little, little, tiny towel that she just handed me.
Chotto motte. Wait a minute! Wait a minute. This is not a towel. I know the sign says "Towel," but this is NOT a towel. A hand towel, maybe. A face cloth, maybe. A veil, maybe. An eye patch, maybe. But certainly not a bath towel. This teensy weensy towel can't possibly cover anything.

I looked at the woman behind the desk.
She looked at me.
"Chiisai des," (it's little), I said in Japanese.
She looked at me.
I looked at my backpack. I hope, I really hope that I packed my travel sewing kit. Certainly I did not want to offend any customs. But, maybe, just maybe, I could sew 2 or 3 or 37 of these small traditional towels together and create one big coverup, perfect for us more bashful types. Yes, that's it! I could make a toga. Or, better yet, a ghost costume. Next time I'm bringing a sheet.

I looked at the woman behind the desk.
She looked at me.
"It's my first time at an onsen," I said.

Yup. I was doing it. I was really doing it. I was actually going to try the highly popular Japanese onsen for the first time. A relaxing soak in a natural hot spring was exactly what my sore body needed after a day of skiing.

I was doing it. Well, actually, I wasn't doing it quite yet. First I needed to get over the fact that this women-only onsen was public. I will be soaking with strangers. And, that this onsen had a, ahem, bathing-suit-less custom. So, nothing was going to be between me and the hot spring bath except my Revlon lipstick, Ruby Radiance.

I looked at my friend who was already in the onsen.
She looked at me.
Be a mermaid, be a mermaid, be a mermaid, I said to myself.

And, after a few nervous minutes, I did it. Very slowly (it was hot!), I entered into a glorious, wonderful, extraordinary, picturesque, unbelievably hot outdoor onsen. I did it!

I looked at my friend.
She looked at me.
"The towel," my friend said to me as she pointed to my towel. I had put it on one of the granite rocks. (Where else are you supposed to put it?) "You are supposed to put it on top of your head. It will help keep you cool. You are not supposed to put it on the rocks."

"So...," I said after a few more minutes. I actually wasn't sure if you are supposed to chat in an onsen or not. But, it felt strange not to say anything. Here we were--a few foreigners and Japanese women together with dollop of towel on our heads. Here we were up to our chins in a hot spring. Here we were experiencing an onsen the, ahem, Japanese way. And, at some point, we were all going to have to get out of the bath and walk naturally to the dressing room. So, shouldn't we chat a bit first? Shouldn't we at least share addresses for a holiday card? Weren't we the sisterhood? The Sisterhood of the Suitless. The Sisterhood of the Brave. The Sisterhood of the Not-So Embarrassed. The Sisterhood of the Little Towel. But, what exactly do you talk about in an onsen? Clothes? The Billy's Boot Camp exercise DVD?

I looked at my friend.
She looked at me.
"So...," I said to my friend. "How do you cook your pot roast?"