‘Rule No 1,” my son authoritatively tells my husband and I. “No maps, no backpacks, no Starbucks coffee. We gotta look just like the locals.” Then he adds, somewhat mystifyingly: “And buy lots of KitKats.”
Our two-week holiday in Japan – right in the middle of cherry-blossom season – is a dream come true for our 14-year-old. Calvin has been a Japanophile since he was 4 years old, and he planned the trip meticulously.
He pored over maps and printed out lists of restaurants to visit, worked hard on his Japanese-language lessons (self-taught via YouTube tutorials) and made a note of all the flavours of KitKat that are available there (matcha, sake, cherry blossom, wasabi and sweet potato, apparently).
Tokyo in March is cold and invigorating. We stay in an impossibly tiny rented flat in Yotsuya Sanchome, a few subway stops from the shopping hub of Shinjuku. From our third-floor roost, we have a view across red rooftops interspersed with pink sakura-blossom clouds.
Our excursions are led by Calvin, who chats in Japanese with shopkeepers, passers-by and even the cashier at the neighbourhood bank. He calmly navigates the labyrinthine metro system (we don’t once lose our way), and introduces us to all kinds of street foods as though he had lived there all his life: takoyaki (balls of octopus), taiyaki waffles, okonomiyaki (pancakes) – all chased down with KitKats.
Calvin manages to spend his entire allowance on those chocolates, and never leaves the flat without a good supply. He eats them everywhere – on the funicular train to the Mount Fuji viewing point; in Ginza, where he sticks them into matcha ice-cream; in Akihabara, the electronics district, where the flashing arcades and vending machines can easily hypnotise you into walking forever, googly-eyed, disregarding your body’s need for sustenance.
We eat local daily, enjoying meals at diners, crowded sushi bars and family-run restaurants that serve flavourful gyudon (beef bowls), platters of gyoza dumplings and bowls of nourishing noodle soup.
But Calvin is happiest on the Shinkansen – Japan’s world-famous bullet trains. Every ride involves several rituals: buy bento sets, ubiquitous snack boxes that no self-respecting Japanese would be seen without on a long journey; film the train as it zooms into the station (he becomes teary-eyed every time, which greatly compromises the quality of the videos); nab a window seat and polish off the bento while staring unblinkingly at the passing scenery; eat KitKats.
Back in Abu Dhabi, after the photographs are sorted and the souvenirs displayed on shelves, I find myself craving a cherry blossom KitKat.
“Nada,” says Calvin, with a hunted look in his eyes. Disappointed, I turn to leave his room, but not before I hear the distinctive sound of a finger of chocolate being snapped in half.
ciyer@thenational.ae
