Ye Gods! What's Up!

All I meant Co do was take a walk in the country, far enough from Tokyo to escape the August heat. I had in mind a Japanese Alpine setting on the lower slopes of Fujiyama with footpaths and Swiss-style signposts noting the time required, in minutes, to walk from one hamlet to the next. When comfortably tired I would return to the train station, ride back to Tokyo and celebrate my outing in the revolving cocktail lounge atop The New Otani hotel. Or, if things were going well, I might seek out a local inn, spend the night and hike on the next day. I put on a pair of shorts because it was hot, stuffed a folded nylon parka in my pocket because it might rain, picked up my camera and took a cab to the station.

Fujiyama is known locally as "Fuji-san." This bit of lore, however, was not enough to convince the ticket agent that I knew what I was doing. He kept shaking his head, and only when I insisted did he reluctantly hand me a ticket and point across the station toward the departure area.

Railroad stations are no problem in Europe. Roma means Rome, Milano means Milan, and so on. It's not that easy in Japan. I did see a sign in English reading "Upstairs" so I went up, but I had no idea where my train was. I returned to the ticket window and told the agent I didn't know where to go. With astonishing kindness and courtesy, he closed his window and came out to lead me. The station was crowded. I failed to watch him closely, lost him in the crowd and looked in vain at hundreds of unfamiliar Japanese. I recalled what we told the kids to do when they were small: "If you ever get separated from us, don't wander around looking for us. Stay right where you are. We will come back and find you." I stayed. The agent came back and indicated that if I was ready to go, he was.

He took me to a platform, pointed to the left side, pointed to one o'clock on his wristwatch, held up one finger to be sure I understood, nodded his head emphatically and hurried away. When the train came I got on with a confidence that faded when we stopped at the first station. How would I ever know when to get off? I brought up the subject of Fuji-san from time to time with the conductor and, when he was not around, with people seated near me until half the car knew my destination. When the conductor, at least to my ears, announced "Fuji-san," I stood up to leave. But half a dozen passengers told me, "Not yet." I sat down and rode on in doubt until at another station the passengers turned to me and chorused "Fuji-san!" I thanked them and got off with a group of young people.

But Fujiyama, it seemed to me as I stepped off the train, was still miles away on the horizon. I turned to get back on, but a young man near me bowed his head and said, "Fuji-san." I pointed at Fuji, made my fingers walk, and stretched out my arms to indicate a long walk. He made his fingers walk and shook his head. Then he made his fingers steer an invisible automobile, held his arms out and brought them together, a short distance to drive. I loved him.

The group started off, leaving me standing uncertainly on the platform. My adviser turned and motioned me to follow, which I did gratefully. A few minutes later we entered a narrow gate and stood in a tiny yard before a storybook, paper-walled house. We were greeted by a bowing woman about my own age, 50. She invited us inside. We took off our shoes and stepped up onto a spotlessly clean, beautifully polished wood floor. We put our shoes into pigeonhole racks and put on woven scuffs. The scuffs were all the same size and much too small for my feet. I asked if I could go in my stocking feet and was granted giggling permission. Our hostess, taking me aside, led me upstairs to a large airy corner room from which the huge lavender cone of Fujiyama could be seen. The room was bare of furniture, its floor covered with closely fitted thick straw mats.

My hostess stayed with me for a chat, which was sociable and lively although she spoke only Japanese and I only English. I thought we discussed my intention to hike around on the lower slopes of Fujiyama, the lack of haze that made the mountain unusually clear and the fact that I had come all the way from New York while she had never been as far as Tokyo. Then, having put me at ease, she withdrew, leaving me to wonder where I was, why I was there and what I should do.

After a period of uncertainty I went back downstairs to find my translator and reconfirm my plan to get to Fuji. No one was there. The house was empty. I lacked the courage to depart without some sort of leave-taking, so I went back to my room, found a pillow on a shelf and stretched out on the matted floor to think. I dozed off to be awakened by rustling in a corner of the room. A young man and girl were kneeling down, quietly going through the contents of a knapsack on the floor. When I sat up the young man turned, grinned broadly, and said, "Good evening, sir! Do we disturb you?"

"I'm glad you did," I said, delighted that he spoke English. "It's getting late, and I must get moving. I want to walk around a bit on Fuji."

"Not now," he said. "Too soon. Climb tonight!"