Lessons on Etiquette and Toothlessness in Japan
Lessons on Etiquette and Toothlessness in Japan
Sake in Tokyo
“Even dignified men (under the influence) suddenly turn into lunatics and behave idiotically … The victim’s head aches even the following day, and he lies abed, groaning, unable to eat, unable to recall what happened the day before, as if everything had taken place in a previous incarnation.”
-Yoshida Kenko, Essays in Idleness
Hikita, Steve, and I are sipping sake, picking at snack-sized tentacles of wasabi octopus and discussing politics and etiquette as they pertain to the world of aikido. I am smiling and trying to follow. I struggle because I have upended an unknown quantity of sake into my mouth. The sake and the seven beers I had with dinner are in some sort of a conspiracy against me.
We are in a bar in Shinjuku, celebrating the end of a nearly weeklong visit to Tokyo to train at Hombu Dojo, the headquarters of aikido. The training has been tough. We meet at 5:30 am and walk from our hotel to the dojo for the 6:30 am class. Each session is an hour of practicing throws and being thrown. The floor at Hombu Dojo is wood covered with a thin layer of quilting. I have attended two sessions per day, and my body hurts. Between classes, I read Lonesome Dove.
Hikita is very serious about etiquette. He scolded us because we didn’t shout “good morning” in Japanese when we entered the changing room at Hombu Dojo. Still, he is funny. Steve is more laid back but seems to know a lot about parliamentary procedure. We’re all heading back to Hong Kong tomorrow.
Back at the hotel, Hikita invites us to his room for a nightcap of bourbon and Coke. He offers me a drink in a plastic cup and I bring it near my face. The conspiracy is revealed. My stomach bucks. I excuse myself.
When I was a teenager, my front teeth were broken down to jagged stumps when I fell off the hood of a moving car. A dentist covered them with natural-looking caps, but over the ensuing years the metal post that had been driven into my jaw to keep one of the caps moored caused my bone to decay. I was in Bangkok when the cap failed, and a dentist there decided the whole rig had to come out. I didn’t have the money to replace it, so the dentist made me a retainer with a realistic-looking tooth piece.
I sit on my bed, trying to deny what I know is coming. And then I am vomiting. It goes on for some time. Finally, I pull myself up to the sink. The empty gap in my teeth sends out a distress signal. It’s the pain of a phantom limb. I look at the horrors in my toilet. The retainer isn’t visible.
I don’t have the strength to find it now. I sleep.
This could be the worst hangover I’ve ever had. Sake is brewed from fine rice and pure water. How could this happen? Think about your tooth. Are you really going to go home to your wife with a tooth out? I go to the bathroom and congratulate myself for not flushing. Now it’s time to get down to first principles. Will my vanity allow a hillbilly gap in my teeth? No.
I dip my hand in. I am trying to be as scientific as possible as I sort through the remains of last night’s celebrations. My retainer isn’t near the surface, that’s clear. I push my hand deeper and start probing the recesses of the plumbing.
Finally, I give up. I flush the toilet and take a hot bath, hoping to sweat out whatever alcohol is still in me. It’s not working. I think I will die, and I won’t even make a beautiful corpse because my teeth are horrible.
I dress and start packing my bags. I grab my copy of Lonesome Dove. As I lift it, a familiar pink horseshoe tumbles to the floor. I must have put my retainer on top of it before things got ugly.
I see Hikita in the lobby. He shakes his head and digs an Alka-Seltzer out of his bag.
“You should not bottoms up!” he scolds.