Chapter 9 So Cute, I Could Eat You Up
So Cute, I Could Eat You Up
A glow of honey and orange ignites the Tokyo skyline as Aiko and I sit at the bus stop.
External air-conditioning units hang from the windows of brick buildings like boxy berries on bushes.
Potted plants with pops of green line the industrial gray concrete sidewalks.
For such a densely populated city, this early Monday morning is as quiet and sleepy as the weekend.
Hardly any cars drive on the street, and it seems like even the summer humidity is tucked away and snoring.
Tourists have gathered around us, whispering in hushed conversations.
They’re dressed in comfortable hiking shoes, loose summer tees, and breathable pants.
And for the first time since I’ve been able to pick out my own outfits, I am too.
Unfortunately. I claw at my skin, feeling like I’m having an allergic reaction to polyester and denim.
But if this tour is anything like my expedition to Cuppa Coffee, I’d rather not risk sending any more of my silk gowns to the laundromat.
That, and Aiko said there would be a lot of walking on this tour.
“Hi,” a familiar voice sounds behind me.
When Aiko said she’d book a bus tour for us, I thought she’d meant her and me.
But ever since I stayed up later than I should’ve, texting Yua, I’ve been grateful Aiko invited her, too.
Aiko’s been fantastically accommodating since I landed in Tokyo.
But when Yua’s around, it’s like even the air smells like home.
“I grabbed some snacks for us,” Yua says, holding up a white plastic bag. “Are you hungry?”
Personally, I’m not. Especially after our day at Tsukiji fish market.
But I am curious to see what snacks Yua brought.
The plastic crinkles as she opens the bag, a pop of static against the otherwise quiet morning.
She holds up some premade sandwiches in clear plastic wrapping, cups of ramen that only need hot water, and small bags of Kit-Kats.
I catch glimpses of various flavors—strawberry, matcha, and even purple sweet potato.
Before I can ask her which Kit-Kat I should try, a giant bus pulls up to the stop. Everyone naturally forms an orderly line as the attendant steps down onto the curb.
“Come on,” Aiko says, standing up and steering me toward the back of the line. “Let’s not keep anyone waiting.”
The line moves quickly, and, fortunately, I have two people who can translate for me.
Aiko handles the tickets while Yua gestures for me to climb onto the bus.
The AC is on full blast. I rub my arms and take a seat by a tinted window.
From this high up, the views of Tokyo already look different.
Maybe it’s because the day is still young, or maybe it’s the fact that Yua sits down beside me, but I have a gut feeling. Today I’m finding my muse.
“I hope you like singing.” Aiko plops down on the seat in front of me. She kneels on her chair so that she can peer at me from over the seat’s headrest.
I furrow my brows.
Aiko points to one of the small TV screens dropping down from the ceiling of the bus.
It isn’t until I glance around that I realize there are microphones mounted to the walls all around us.
TV screens are everywhere, and there’s even a giant one at the front of the bus.
It hasn’t been turned on yet. I can already imagine seeing lyrics glowing in unison with the melody when someone sings along.
“Karaoke?” I wince, thinking of all the times Ma dragged me to a karaoke bar for her birthday.
Yua nudges my shoulder with hers. “I’ll sing a song if you do.”
No, thank you. What I do instead is listen as the bus revs its engine and we start the tour.
The mic is passed around while various people sign up to sing.
Most of the songs are slow Japanese ballads.
The in-bus karaoke machine also has some American songs in English.
Every time someone sings a classic like “My Girl” or “Rocket Man,” Aiko spins around in her seat to sing-scream the lyrics at me.
As if that will get me to sign up to sing.
After we leave the city behind, the bus climbs into the mountains of Gunma Prefecture. My ears pop as the towers of brick and concrete are replaced by mounds of lush, pointy mountains. Unlike the mechanical wash of the city, there’s something organic about Gunma.
Pops of traditional housing line the highway in the troughs between mountains.
They make me think of Amah again, even though I’m pretty sure these houses were built before her time.
But what about Amah’s mom? I don’t have any of her stories.
All I have is the uchikake she gave my grandma, and now I’m on my way to see exactly why it’s so special.
We pass the occasional rice field flooded with water as glassy and smooth as a mirror.
The roads wind between the valleys, and I’m thrown back into the jungle of green that makes up the Japanese countryside.
If I’d thought to bring my headphones, I would’ve rather listened to a Studio Ghibli soundtrack than the karaoke singing that I’ve tuned out.
Fortunately, I brought a backpack with my sketch pad and some charcoal.
I try to capture the endless waves of mountain from my view out the window, but each time I sketch, I feel Yua’s eyes on me.
She likes my work, I keep telling myself.
She’s an artist, too. She knows not everything is perfect the first time it’s drawn.
And yet my hand shakes every time I try to sketch a straight line.
Finally, we arrive at our first stop. The tour guide takes the mic from the person singing and informs us where we are. Yua handles all the translations, but she whispers quietly, so as not to interrupt the tour guide. I find myself leaning in so close to her that her breath hits my ear.
My body does something strange. A cold shiver runs down my spine at the same time my cheeks flood with heat.
I pull back like I’ve been shocked by a light switch.
It didn’t hurt, though. If anything, it felt kind of…
nice. Kind of like I’m already planning my next excuse to have her this close to my skin.
Snap out of it, Lilyn! I’m not going to pull a full Ma and fall head over heels for someone just because they’re sitting beside me on an all-day bus tour.
I disembark into the parking lot and gaze around.
The bus is stopped on the slope of a mountain overlooking a basin while also being nowhere near its peak.
More traditional buildings with wooden frames and paper screens encircle the parking lot.
We’re not the only tour bus that’s made a stop here.
Waves of tourists are already headed toward the buildings.
Some larger groups are led by a guide waving an orange flag so everyone knows who to follow.
Others are small, independent groups of people like us.
“Come on,” Yua says, tugging my arm. “Let me show you the museum.”
Yua leads me to a brown brick building in the far corner of the square.
Along the way, she explains that sericulture is a dying practice due to the rising cost of labor for silk.
Because of modern textile mills’ ability to mass replicate cheaper material, this vital, millennia-old tradition is being lost.
I knew about that before coming here, but for some reason, it didn’t click until Yua said it.
Maybe it’s because there’s a difference between reading about it online and hearing the heaviness in Yua’s voice as we climb up the stone walkway.
I didn’t grasp what it meant to lose such a vital part of one’s cultural history like this.
Even though I grew up not speaking Mandarin, it has always felt like something I can learn eventually.
But sericulture as an entire industry isn’t something I can simply go to school for.
The skill—the art—is being forgotten. Which is why the art of making kimonos is dying out, too.
A kimono starts with the threading of silk, whereas the more casual yukata can be made with the cotton prints people can buy at shops like Matsumoto Alturations.
Though I don’t have the bandwidth to make a kimono in one summer, I can at least draw more attention to its erasure in my essay.
“It’s nice that we can bring people here for bus tours.” Yua smiles when we arrive at the building that has a giant wooden door. “The museum helps keep sericulture alive, and it’s become another source of revenue for us.”
When Yua opens the door, I step inside the museum portion of the property.
The smooth walls are made of gray stone that keeps the heat outside and coolness within.
It’s a long building with nothing more than a straight hallway to the door at the end, but along the way are glass shelves with pictures inside.
I stroll over, taking my time to examine the display of silkworm casings and paintings of cute white worms munching away on lush green leaves.
I can’t help but swoon. They look so happy.
“Yeah,” Yua says, standing beside me to enjoy the painting. “We boil them alive to harvest the silk. And then we eat them.”
The nonchalance of her tone makes me erupt with laughter.
It echoes down the stone hallway and back, heads turning to look at me in the process.
I read about this while I was researching topics for my essay.
But hearing Yua’s deadpan tone is what makes me laugh uncontrollably.
It’s not funny. And that’s why it’s hilarious.
Yua gives me a mischievous smile. “I’m glad you laughed because I would’ve just been an asshole if you hadn’t.”
I wave my hand over my face to catch my breath. “No, I mean, like…I already knew that, but still. You’re…” I don’t finish. I don’t know how to. “Um, so, like, in what ways do you eat them?”