Why my mother is really good at being Japanese.

CAST OF REGUALR CHARACTERS CONTAINED IN THIS POST

I originally wrote this post just a few days before the Japanese earthquake and tsunami and I thought it would be in poor taste to post it whilst their country was facing its darkest hour. Then about a week ago I was going to write a post about how my best friend dressed up as Amy Winehouse on Halloween so I’ve realised that I am able to foresee death and destruction. As such I am trying to break this cycle by posting about Japan because their disaster has already happened. My hope is the space-time continuum will use this paradox constructively and right itself. In the mean time, subjects on my posts face huge risks, today my mother will probably have something bad happen to her but she’s a forceful woman so I’m fairly confident she’ll cope.

Travelling is a wonderful experience, I’m sure you’d agree. My only real gripe is that the way you imagine yourself experiencing a place never quite measures up to reality.

The photos that you bring home reveal the truth. I’m not a true high maintenance kind of girl really but I have noticed that I do not have the kind of hair that travels well. Limp, greasy, fly-aways, odd curly bits, my hair covers it all.

SPAIN - Imagined

SPAIN - Actual

FRANCE - Imagined

FRANCE - Actual

MOROCCO - Imagined

MOROCCO - Actual

Recently my brother, mother and I made a last minute dash to Japan to ski. A bi-product of the skiing was the spending of time in Japan.

My skis were purchased in France and were originally trained up on French snow. To their total disgust they discovered themselves being put on an aeroplane and taken to a foreign land. They have since been forced to ski in Australian conditions. Skiing in Australia is an extreme sport. Slush, grass, rocks, ice, rain and sunshine combine together to make for a ski season that lasts all of five and a half minutes before it everything melts. As a result of these conditions you have to be extremely accurate when skiing to make sure that your skis stay in contact with actual snow. Occasionally when my French skis have had enough of these appalling conditions, they simply refuse to do as they are told.

They do this to make a point. “We are European skis. We deserve better. Until you get this into your head, we shall make you fall on it”.

It turns out that Franco-Nippon relations are much better. With snow as their only common language, the mountains of Japan and the skis of France danced gracefully together. I came along for the ride purely as a freeloader, a witness to the love making of mankind’s knack for elegant design and Mother Nature’s gift for turning water into white fluffy stuff.

The skis weren’t the only ones who took to Japan.

Our hotel was booked at the last minute so we were staying in one that is pretty much a Japanese hotel with few westerners staying there. This was actually really great because we got a more authentic experience. I slept on a slim Japanese mattress on the floor. The mattress had virtually no padding, I think its soul purpose is to prevent carpet burn. This did wonders for my back, skiing by day and hard core chiropractic work by night.

Our room contained no chairs so we sat on the floor cross legged as if we were about to meditate. Also there was a huge communal bathroom and natural hot springs down in the basement and we were provided with kimono dressing gowns and these little grey Japanese-style collared PJs that mum and I, continuing in the spirit of being culturally insensitive, nicknamed “Mao suits.”

My mother is well travelled but had never been to Japan. As it turns out, she is really good at being Japanese. 

Mum wearing the kimono dressing gown provided by the hotel.

Mum in the natural hot springs (onsen).

Mum conducting a tea ceremony in her Mao suit (English breakfast tea with a dash of milk, no sugar).

One sunny morning, whilst my easily freckled mother applied a thick layer of SPF a billion plus house paint to her face, my brother and I packed up the camera for some happy snaps. Mum decided that if photos were going to be taken she should apply some pink lipstick.

Mum being sunsmart and wearing lipstick = geisha style for the 21^st century (although the red hair brings a certain clown atheistic that the original geisha tend not to display).

She also used my brother’s knock-off iPad. For someone who uses two hands to press the buttons on a remote control, this kind of technology use was entirely out of character but when in Rome, one does as the Romains do. I was half expecting her work blackberry to come home covered in glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty paraphernalia.

Our camera actually broke while we were skiing so the geisha will have to be remembered via my artistic interpretation of the events. This was pretty shitty but there is no reason to panic because at least Shelley’s OK.

Xx Smelle