A Japanese Valentine

A JAPANESE VALENTINE

In a previous article entitled The Sabra and the Chrysanthemums Wedding, I began the saga of our international relationship – how we met, our jet-setting around the world, and our eventual wedding 20 years ago.  Ours was truly a whirlwind romance which defied all logic, not the least of which was barriers to communication, with neither one of us speaking the other’s language.  Moreover, our different cultures were threatened to clash, as my own background is Israeli living in the United States, while my husband is Japanese.  And yet, looking back at our 20 years together, we have somehow managed to bridge these differences in language and culture with our all-too-human traits.

We met at my son’s wedding.  My son had traveled to Israel where he met his bride to be, a lovely Japanese young woman who was studying history and art in Israel.  After traveling together throughout Israel and Egypt, the couple returned to their respective homes, she to Japan and my son to the States.  Forlorn and miserable, my son sold his possessions and joined his betrothed in Japan.  It was at his wedding that I was introduced to my husband.  I arrived in Japan on the eve of his wedding, and was treated by his in-laws to a wonderful Japanese dinner of shabu-shabu, sashimi and sake.  As soon as we sat down, my son turned to me and asked, “So, Ma, do you want to get married again?” Huh?  Where did that come from?  My son was in the throes of preparations for his own wedding in the morning, and was not known to be much interested in the romantic life of his mother.  But I played along, and replied, “Well, sure, but I need a boyfriend first.”  No problem, my son came up with a ready solution: “The photographer at my wedding is single, he is a businessman and he is handsome.”  This, from my son?  Odd.  My reply was just as facile.  I said, “But he lives in Japan and I live in Miami.”  Not to be outdone, my son replied, “So you move!”  And that was that.  Dinner arrived, and the conversation continued mostly between my son and his in-laws in rapid-fire Japanese, while I sat, eating the shabu-shabu, and listening to the chatter, understanding not a single word.