Hanging Pictures in Japan
How one milspouse learned to feel at home abroad
by Erin Delgado
One cold day in March, my husband Matt, walked through the door of our home in Maine and told me that we were moving to northern Japan. I nodded with a half-hearted smile. After all, I knew it was coming. As a Navy couple, our reality was that an overseas move was imminent. Sometimes we get a choice in the matter of where we move next, but that year, our timing had brought us face to face with a “hard-fill” – orders that, due to their location, are “hard to fill.”
Admittedly, I had mixed feelings about living in Japan for three years, especially the northern part of the country where I knew the winters would be harsh, and the visits home, scarce. However, I tried to put it in perspective. It was the absolute least we could sacrifice in respect to the thousands of military families enduring wartime deployments today.
We moved into our house in the town of Misawa, a small farming and fishing community on the northern Pacific coast, during a New Year snow storm. The neon sign of a home amenities store flickered in the distance as we took pictures of the snowfall that evening.
By all accounts, our tour in Japan had begun, but I hadn’t gathered the energy to start decorating our house. The jet lag was over, but I was still in limbo.
All that was new became a trigger of frustration, rather than enthusiasm. I wanted to eat familiar food. I wanted to see someone – anyone – laugh uncontrollably and perhaps inappropriately. I wanted to hear the honking of car horns and watch an argument ensue between drivers. I wanted to recognize the signs in shop windows. I wanted to go clothes shopping and not be dismayed that I was a size “LL.”
I tried to ignore these frustrations and pay attention to the uniqueness of the city, but my thoughts kept reminding me that I was in Japan because I live here.
Matt and I eventually found a sushi go-round that became our weekly date spot. There, the theme is pink, and the Japanese women in paper hats prepare the sushi effortlessly before you. We took weekend excursions to local parks and festivals. I saw the cherry blossoms in Hirosaki, toured the region’s lakes and mountains, visited shrines and spent days driving the outskirts of the town with no real destination in mind. We found a morning café where their homemade scones became our Saturday morning treat. I walked into a local hair salon with just a picture and two practiced Japanese phrases.
My place in Japan had evolved in its own way, and with the promise that given perspective, patience and fortitude, time can reveal great gifts.
I remember the summer night when Matt and I drove to Pink Sushi for dinner. We sat down at the stools behind the counter, and as we began to fix our green tea, the familiar lady in her pink paper hat called to the kitchen, “Ebi Kuri! Shishiken maki!” Translation: “Shrimp and Cucumber! Tuna with mayo roll!” She smiled at us and nodded. It was our usual. We were familiar. This was home for now. When we got back to the house, I opened the door to the unused room where our framed pictures sat unwrapped on the floor, and with Matt’s help, I began hanging them on the walls.