The Fungus of Immortality and Vigorous Crotch Gestures

Now I should point out that those are two separate phrases. The Fungus of Immortality is the fungus of just immortality. It's not the fungus of immortality and vigorous crotch gestures. Just so we're all clear on that.

So San Francisco's Asian Art Museum has installed a mini-exhibit of Chinese ceramics in the SFO United concourse, which is rather a nice departure from the oft-questionable styles of airport decor. As Bob and I learned while killing time before our flight to Narita, a certain era of Chinese ceramics held the Fungus of Immortality in high regard as an artistic motif. I can only assume its name has lost a bit of mystique along the route of translation into English, but I feel it still retains a certain pizazz. I do hope one day to see the name "Fungus of Immortality" in the lineup at the Kentucky Derby or something. Because, y'know: Awesome.

But yes, we landed safely in Narita, got through customs and reclaimed our baggage without incident, and are safely checked into our hotel. Even got a decent dinner at a ramen place recommended by the girl who brought our bags up to our room. I had ramen, while Bob had yakitori and enough hot sake to make him...exuberant. Though the restaurant had at least one patron more drunk than he.

Which brings me to the second part of this post's title. So this drunken guy -- not creepy or threatening, just drunk -- starts chatting with us a little, using English about as rudimentary as my Japanese. Bob carefully recites a phrase he's been waiting to use ("This is my son"), and this man's response was to strike the pose of a sumo wrestler and then make vigorous, yet somehow stately, gestures toward his own crotch. My best guess is that he was complimenting Bob on his fertility.

But the meaning of the crotch gestures isn't entirely important, is it? The real thing, I feel, is the simple fact that this man had the bravado to make vigorous crotch gestures to people whose language he did not speak, thus having no way to explain himself. I know if I were making vigorous crotch gestures at some tourists from, I dunno, let's say Laos, I would be nervously explaining the whole time, just so they knew I wasn't just some pelvic degenerate, and that I was really making a statement here that was well worth their time and future contemplation. But this man clearly felt secure that his statement stood on its own. To show so much and tell so little takes faith and guts, and I salute you, random drunken Narita ramen-shop guy, for your abundance of both.

But enough of the finer things. Plan for tomorrow: Catch a hotel shuttle to either Shinjuku Station or perhaps Tokyo Station, get a train to Otsuki (I think), and from there we can ride the official Fuji train, which has cartoony Fujis painted on the side. Not that we'll be able to see those painted Fujis from the inside of the train. I bet there's something even cooler on the inside, and I just might not tell you what it is. Because I haven't slept in a long time and I'm feeling tired and petulant.

Therefore, I'm off to bed. Thanks for reading, and to all a good night.