11-13-08

Day 1:

The Flight

Rapid City Regional Airport to Denver International to San Francisco. Our plane arrived an hour late, which left me 40 minutes to check into the international flight to Osaka and race back through security all the way to my gate, the entire length of the airport away. Heart pumping, sweat pouring, feet running, arms swinging, this was a flat out sprint to the finish line and the only reward would be my tiny Economy Class seat on the Boeing 747. I nearly knocked over an elderly German couple who were leisurely strolling to their gate, dodged to the left, threw an apology at them over my shoulder and continued my mad dash to the gate. I was the last person to arrive on the plane and they immediately shut the door behind me after I entered. I made it!

On the way to my seat, I pass one of my travel companions, Nathan Notah, director of the American Indian Ag Council, who was making calls back to the office telling them I missed the plane. Ha! Ha! Nice way to start off a long flight.

I settle into my seat and oscillate between sleeping and watching the in-flight movies for our 11+ hour journey. I slowly start observing the Japanese travelers. They are the reason Tanka Bar is making this long trip overseas. I wonder what makes them tick and what foods they like? Would they like the Tanka Bar? Many of the Japanese people we have met at the food shows we have attended have really enjoyed the Tanka Bar. Would they be so kind in the mainland? I notice that many are wearing face masks, the type you'd see nurses or surgeons wear. I assumed there would be no in-flight heart transplants, so what gives? Another questions to ask when I land.

An hour into the flight, I notice we are still in sight of land to the right of our plane. We take a northern route to save on time. We are flying so far to the west it actually cuts down on the distance to avoid flying around the fat middle part of the earth. So we actually fly westward in an arc pattern to get to the east.

They serve us two meals free of charge and this shocks me. I was honestly expecting a handful of peanuts and warm soda served over ice, not even a whole can to ourselves. We watch Wall-E as they bring around the Duty Free cart carrying high-dollar items for sale tax- and tariff-free. If you haven't seen Wall-E yet, see it. An adorable movie.

A huge jet comes what feels dangerously close to us. I can make out the windows but not quite the faces of their passengers. I look down at freighters hauling shipping containers. Still in sight of land.

I sleep for the rest of the way and ,when we deplane, we are greeted with the deep, warm of air of a foreign climate, not quite in the same swing of the seasons as back home. The Customs officers were professional and polite, a trait I would soon learn is very common in Japan.

Culture Shock

My first culture shock comes in the bathroom, where I know what I need to, but the facilities are not what I'm accustomed to. Imagine an American restroom, surgically clean, and then eaten and digested by cybernetic beats, reformed into a post-modern aesthetic. When you stick your hands into an automatic hand drier ,your fingers and palms are lit of up by UV rays, which are sanitizing them. Not on the rez anymore.

I meet our whole team face to face for the first time this trip. There is Nathan Notah, representing the American Indian Ag Council, our benefactors on this trade mission; Jim McCool of Red Lake Nation Foods; and Joe Jaramillo. We eat at McDonald’s like every patriotic American does while visiting a foreign country and head to the hotel. Local time is 8 p.m. tomorrow and we are dead, beat, tired. I crash nice and hard and don't wake until past dawn.

Tourist for a Day

We have the entire day of ahead of us and we want to do the whole tourist bus route deal. Kyoto is a city of over 2,000 shrines and temples and was specifically spared some of the most horrendous bombing of WW2 in order to preserve these beautiful and historic cultural sites. We meet with our translation team and our man on the ground, Mike Moretti. They are dressed in business suits and have polished shoes and I have on blue jeans and sneakers. I feel a little out of place. Mike hands us our business cards that have been translated into Japanese. I quickly learn that the business card is a big part of the business culture here. When first meeting, you shake hands and exchange business cards, and it is not just a trade of contact information but an understanding of one’s station and rank. My card says Assistant Director of Marketing, and theirs would say Head of Sales, I would bow lower to show my respect. Just like that movie Shogun they showed us in 8th grade civics class!

Armed with our business cards and freshly exchanged Yen, we set off in search of Nijo Castle, the palace fortress of the first Shogun of Japan. It is a huge, sprawling complex with an exterior and interior moat. It is solidly placed in the center of Kyoto, which itself is placed in the bowl of a deep valley ringed by vast mountains. Looking at the castle, it does not look like an easy place to attack a Lord, but it doesn't strike me as an easy place to defend. (Yes, I'm a tactics nerd and a history buff.) We are not permitted to take pictures of the inside of the residence. I am not sure why the prohibition, but I follow the rules as stated. The 400-year-old floor boards whistle as we walk on them. Not creak out of age, but whistle. I remember watching this on the History Channel. The floors were designed to make noise so no one could approach the Shogun unannounced. It is an amazing feat that it works after all these years.

We see the Shogun's living quarters, his guardhouse, his imperial court, and his ministers offices. The tax and collection office is as large as all of the others combined. The outside is immense and huge. We have no guide, and so we wander the paths all over the compound. The Japanese tourist seem every bit as fascinated and nerdy as us. They take pictures of everything and move with a quick, almost nervous, energy.

As we exit the compound, I buy some silk, incense and spice. I figure if you are going to the Far East on a trade mission, might as well kick it old school, Marco Polo style. And I bet he would come back with some Hello Kitty merchandise if they had it back then, too.

On our cab ride back, I try to tip the driver only to be refused not just twice, but thrice. It seems that the gratuity is already built into the fee for whatever good or service that is offered and that tipping is not just redundant, but slightly rude. Live and learn, I guess.