Okinawan Breeze

Cherry Blossoms

The Four Seasons is a small outlet mall in the center of Camp Foster, a Marine Corps base in central Okinawa. It has everything Marines need: cellphone providers, barbershop, antique stores, cheap paintings, and otaku merchandise. Bespectacled Marines could be found perusing provocatively dressed figurines and casting furtive, embarrassed glances towards passersby. If the Marine remained fixated on their prizes while I walked by, I would make a mental note of what they looked like. If they're past the point of feeling socially obligated to at least pretend to look repentant, someone has to keep an eye on them. Though, the Neon Genesis Evangelion statue of Rei was pretty cool and the design wasn't going to put me on any watchlists. Maybe the plug suit unnecessarily defined her curves, but that was a practical, ergonomic decision for her to pilot the Eva. A concerned citizen might protest she looks like a teenager and to sexualize her warrants DNA collection, but an educated member of society (such as myself) would know she's not actually a teenager. In fact, she's a cloned vessel for an Angel. The legislation isn't out yet in the States, but I can say with confidence cloned vessels don't reside on the same rote age categories as people. Case closed.

Oh shit, I've been standing here too long. Did anyone pass by? Was my mouth open or did I remember to breathe through my nose? Sometimes my nose gets stuffy and I have a hard time breathing through it. Not congested like when you're sick and you can breathe a little if you push hard. It's worse than that. It's like a construction worker filled it with concrete. I can make the veins on my forehead stand out if I try to get pass the barricade. The concrete switches between nostrils. It's like one of those base construction projects that keeps getting delayed and inherits new project managers every couple months. One day the cement is being poured in the left and next moment it's the right. It doesn't make any sense. It must be a deviated septum or something. God, I hope my mouth wasn't open. With quick steps and head downcast, I take my leave.

I pass overpriced samurai armor sets and amateur paintings of Mount Fuji. I say Mount Fuji because that's the only mountain in Japan people paint pictures of, but I can't be certain when looking at the displayed artwork. It looks like the iconic single peaked rock, but it lacks the finesse and majesty captured by painters like Hokusai. This discount Fuji looks like a gray rock amid a field of white turds. I take it all in for a few more moments. I mean, I guess that's all Mount Fuji really is when you think about it, but no one is willing to say it. It's national pride, a beautiful landscape, a pilgrimage site, and a world-renowned tourist attraction. Nope, it's just a gray rock. Sorry to break it to you.

That's one of the biggest differences between America and Japan. Japanese people have "reverence" towards landmarks, objects, nature and one another, while Americans (a steadily decreasing amount of them) only revere God in a similar manner. Truly, think of a mountain range in America that deigns to scrape at the base of Mount Fuji's renown. Mount Rushmore? We stole it from the Native American people and defiled it by scraping out a couple faces on it. Blasphemy, much less reverence. Is Mount Rushmore merchandise displayed in every gift store across the country? Have famous artists dedicated a career to painting Mount Rushmore from 36 different locations and in various seasons and weather conditions? There's no trash on Mount Fuji either, while I'm willing to wager there's at least a couple discarded McDonalds' bags scattered about Washington's feet. Maybe some graffiti adorned on Abraham Lincoln politely instructs onlookers to "suk a dik."

I walk towards the exit with these profound thoughts buzzing around in my head. Towards the door, I come to the Petals & Bloom flower shop. Lacking anything better to do, I step inside. Like stepping into an outdoor garden, beautiful displays of carnations, lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums fight for space on the store shelves. My dour thoughts about defaced mountains dissipate like dandelion pappus in the wind. The smell of untainted nature fills the air. A Japanese woman, with lightly tanned skin and long black hair pulled into a ponytail, stands at a counter. Her hands delicately work pruning scissors along a bouquet she's putting together. She looks up from the bouquet to give me a perfunctory smile before returning to her work. There are no welcoming "irasshaimases" (Japanese for welcome) on base.