My Roots in Okinawa

Chapter 2: Attracted to the Yatai - 1

After checking into our room, Dad was soon sound asleep. I wasn't about to go straight to bed because I was anxious for a drink. My wife detested alcohol and I hardly ever drank since getting married twelve years ago. I only had eleven days on Okinawa and I wasn't about to waste a single minute. Okinawa streets were safe to walk even after midnight. So my only concern was finding my way around.

It was almost midnight when I walked out of the hotel. The air was warm and slightly humid. The sky was pitch black except for the small area lit by the white half-moon. The sounds of the crickets were occasionally drowned by the vehicles traveling on nearby streets. Two cabs were parked on the hotel's curbside while its drivers chatted nearby waiting to serve hotel guests going out at night. I ignored the cab drivers that instinctively looked my way because I wanted to walk the streets and didn't have any particular destination in mind.

The hotel was surrounded by a maze of several small roads branching off into other small roads. The streets of Okinawa weren't organized in parallel and perpendicular lines I was used to in the states. Fortunately, the roads were dimly lit by well placed lampposts. After pondering for a few minutes, I began walking in the direction I thought would eventually lead me to Highway 58.

I was hoping to find the area surrounding Highway 58 familiar because I had driven it thousands of times in the past. The island's main highway ran from the southern to northern ends of the island. Interestingly, the speed limit was only fifty kilometers per hour, or thirty miles per hour. Often, speeding tourists accustomed to higher speed limits were ticketed.

As I walked the narrow back streets toward Highway 58, I passed by many shops, houses, and restaurants. There were also many Japanese snack bars sporadically located along the street with its dimly lit storefront signs emitting a sense of romantic loneliness. A Japanese snack bar was kind of a hostess bar where ladies were paid to serve alcohol and converse with male customers. Contrary to some misconceptions, the hostesses were not prostitutes. In Japan, there's often a specific place for everything and men seeking sexual favors could go to a soapland in the red light district.

I reached Highway 58 after walking about ten minutes. Tall road lights lining the highway provided adequate lighting for the highway and its sidewalk. Buildings of all shapes and sizes stood along the sidewalk. Most of the buildings were office spaces closed for the night. But there were a few fancy bars and restaurants still open. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles with its bright headlights bustled over the highway. The passing vehicles made a continuous wave of rough sounds that intensified to a peak as the cars neared and immediately subsided as it passed by. The sound of the traffic tantalized me into a daze.

As I walked, I remembered how I used to spend many weekends at Kokusai Douri's nightclubs, which we used to call discos. Kokusai Douri, or International Street, was the heartbeat of Okinawa with many gift shops, restaurants, nightclubs, and live music houses. Night owls walked the streets late into the evening. So I decided to spend the night on Kokusai Douri where I could relive the past.

First, I needed to find Route 42, which I knew was adjacent to Highway 58, and led directly to Kokusai Douri. Fortunately, the large street was not hard to find. I hit Route 42 after walking only a block north on Highway 58. Then, with an excited feeling, I hastened toward Kokusai Douri.

When I was only about a block from reaching Kokusai Douri, I noticed two small yatais set up in a small parking lot on the other side of Route 42. A yatai was a small mobile food stall in Japan typically selling noodles or other hot foods. People stopped by on his or her way home from work or other bars. Yatais were popular in mainland Japan, but I wasn't expecting to find one in Okinawa. I was intrigued and walked across the street to check them out.

The names of the two yatais were Yoruneko and Pinball. The two yatais were structurally identical. Each had a counter adjoined to the two sides of a rectangular table making an L-shape. Four large wooden posts were placed on the four corners of the table to support the bamboo roof. Blue and white canvases were used for walls and to cover the roof. Several brightly lit red Japanese lanterns hung from the canvas walls.

Ten small fold-up chairs were placed in front of the counter for customers. About a dozen large bottles of different types of Japanese sake were placed on the table for the customer's view. A stove for cooking oden was also on the table. Oden contained an assortment of boiled eggs, daikon, cabbage, and konnyaku boiled in broth.

The chef wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and apron stood directly across the customers talking to them as they drank and ate. The obvious familiarity between the chef and customers made me hesitate to go in. I felt like an outsider and shy about intruding.

My insecurity to go into the yatai was enough to push me toward Kokusai Douri where I'd relive my past. But as I was walking, my mind kept going back to the yatai. As the lights of Kokusai Douri came within view, I realized how absurd it was for me not to go to the yatai due to some irrational fear. I turned around and walked back.

Once arriving at the yatai I began feeling nervous again. I was starting to think that there might be some sort of yatai etiquette that needed to be observed that I wasn't aware about. Nevertheless, I entered the yatai. "Good evening," I said to catch the chef's attention. "Is this seat open?" Everyone looked at me. I felt like an outsider asking permission to enter an exclusive club.

The chef gave me a bright smile. "Please. Please. Have a seat."

I took a seat on the far right, away from the other customers. "Shitsureishimasu," I said humbly. A direct translation of Shitsureishimasu is 'excuse me for my actions.' But it's one of those words where nuance is more important that direct translation. There, I was saying 'excuse me for intruding and let's get along.'

I thought for only a moment. "I would like an Orion Beer and oden." Orion beer was a local Okinawan beer.

"What assortment of oden would you like?"

"Chef's choice is fine."

"Hai!" the chef responded enthusiastically. The chef opened a bottle of Orion beer and handed it to me with a glass.

I poured the beer into the glass and took several consecutive gulps. "Ahh." It was a wonderful taste and feeling.

Besides its cramped space, a difference between a yatai and a regular restaurant was the seating arrangements. In a restaurant, people were seated with their groups at separate tables. In the yatai, everyone sat together. The yatai customers came separately with friends, business associates, dates, or by themselves. But once at the counter, everyone more or less interacted to some extent with each other.

The chef looked at me as he wiped his hands on his apron. "Do you live in this area?"

"No, I live in Washington. I just flew into Okinawa two hours ago. The last time I was on Okinawa was twenty-one years ago." My answer covered more than he had asked.

"Twenty-one years? Wow!" the chef said enthusiastically. He was playing his part to make a customer feel comfortable.

"Yes, it was a very long time. I really missed Okinawa."

"What do you do in Washington?" he asked. A very common question that I always felt uncomfortable answering.

"I am a lawyer." Lawyers were always popular at parties, and I thought that could help me fit in. But I also felt that it could sometimes be intimidating and prevent people from engaging in conversation.

"That is outstanding!" The flattering comment came from a voice of one of the customers.

I didn't find it necessary to inform the group that my law practice was actually a failure. A few months prior, I lost a contingency case that I spent much of my time fighting for over two years. It was a loser from the beginning, and many of my colleagues warned me against getting too deep into it. But the client was Japanese, and I felt an obligation to fight for him. In the end, all I was left with was a mountain of bills, an unsatisfied client, and a failed law practice.

In any event, on Okinawa, the worse mistake one can make was to appear conceited. Ingrained in the Japanese psychology was the saying, "the nail that sticks up gets hammered down." During adolescence, the hammer often came in the form of teasing or physical abuse. But on Okinawa, it was the 'cold shoulder' I feared most. News traveled fast and one accused of bad conduct found all his friends giving him the cold shoulders. I felt that hammer too many times growing up and wasn't going to be a victim at the yatai.

"Lawyers in the United States are a dime a dozen, not like in Japan," I said. Flattering comments needed to be addressed immediately with humility.

I wanted to change the subject. "It sure is nice being back in Okinawa. I've heard it changed so much." I paused as the chef nodded with understanding. "By the way, what's your name?"

"My name is Kenta," the chef answered.

"Really? My name is Kenta too!" It was true. My middle name was Kenta - Joe Kenta Taira. That was good because no matter how small, we had something in common to develop our conversation.

"Heeeee. Terrific!" Everyone else chimed in to show interest. The conversation was flowing well.

I took a better look at the customers. There was a man with a dog, a young lady, and a young couple.

"How long are you in Okinawa?" the young lady asked. She was sitting at the far left side of the counter.

I looked toward where she was sitting. "Eleven days." As I studied her, I was taken aback by her attractiveness. She had big round eyes, narrow eyebrows, a cute small nose, and a clever smile. She tied her long hair with a ribbon into a ponytail. She was wearing a blouse and sweater. I could tell she was of Okinawan ancestry. "What's your name?"

"Minako," she answered softly.