Dear Bourdain,

Ya know. We communicate with more than words. A lot more.

A sense of adventure.
Universal sign language.
Mimicry.
Broken English or karaoke songs in bars.
Plenty of apologies, followed up by cheers-ing your drinks and being wonderful.

That time the three of us could only communicate in pairs of rock-paper-scissors, but with Chinese, Japanese, and English, with each of us knowing two, but working collectively to communicate. Translating jokes and a delayed laugh track.

Bows and gestures and enthusiastic waves.

Tiny translation devices and apps and smartphones. Computers that bridged the gap of generalities but miss the specifics and leave aside the warmth and nuance. Plus the hilarious mistake. Book linens. Toast socks.

When I meet other English speakers and can finally use the puns. What’s your favorite bivalve, Oyster, Scallop, or Clams? Well, I’m Am-bivalve-nt

Stolen glances and small smiles translate in all languages; even if I still don’t understand a thing.

Your demeanor determines your presence. Your attitude determines your conversation. And more important than all of that, smile authentically.

I can distinctly remember on the canal streets of Otaru, this elderly lady, independent but very slow moving. We made eye contact, and I smiled brightly and bowed; a sign of respect for my elders, but also as an invader of her domicile.

I can clearly remember the second of sizing me up, an up-and-down look of my person. She broke into a relaxed smile, all 8 craggily black teeth splitting open her weathered face. But while her age slowed her physical body, her eyes were sharp and bright.

We briefly chatted. She seemed to know that I could understand nothing in her Japanese, and she could reasonably ignore my handsigns and slow English that did very little for her.

Yet she kindly spoke about her home town. She gestured to the surroundings with serenity and thoughtfulness. We bade each other goodbye, a very brief and inconsequential meeting.

Yet somehow, we had bridged distances of language, culture, and generations; possibly entire chapters of human history. To be kind towards on another. Chat amicably in a place I felt did not belong to me. She took a second to reach out towards a complete stranger and give him some words; knowing I’d never understand them.

On the otherside, I ducked into the Otau brewery as the rain went from occasional drops to light showers. [The place is called Otaru Warehouse No. 1 and it is modeled after German breweries. The place is gorgeously decorated and overlooks the river.]

Sitting by himself is a tall grizzled European looking fellow sporting a distinguished beard.

We talk, I am savoring the use of speaking English again.

He is a pilot, father of two boys, 5 and 3, based in Melborne and Hong Kong but also a small vacation home in the country side in Japan.

We share a beer and venture off on all sorts of topics about our futures and pasts. The places we had seen, what we had learned, how we had found our callings that lead us to meet in a German style brewery in Otaru, Japan.

He bought my beer, the friendly guy. Refused any sort of compensation.

We’re both optimists. In the face of everything, we look up and forward more than anything else.

I communicate well. Chatter and discussions. I’m most proud when I can conduit large differences or make authentic connections. The conversations are leading me to a very similar conclusion: that we are more alike than we know. That you can bridge the oceans that separate us with very basic humanity and the audacity to reach out and overseas.

I’ll leave one more last small motion.

I get a bowl of hot ramen in a little shop for dinner. I should have gone for the sushi, but I wanted to spend less money and get more volume of food.

Regardless, as I am eating, one of three other customers in the shop. A family comes in with a father holding the smallest in his arms. The Japanese sliding doors require a little more finesse, but he manages with practiced movements. The child, though, has other plans, and promptly tosses his rain boot to the ground in delight.

I didn’t hesitate, picking up the shoe and handing it to the burdened father. In the Japanese way, there are a lot of Arigatos and bowing, which I am rapturously trying to demur; it was a small favor barely worth mentioning. [Doitashimashite!]

I return to my meal and slowly make my way to pay. The host, who has seen all of this, accepts the money and then insists on gifting me one of the ice pops that sit for sale next to the register.

I relent and enjoy the sweet treat on my way out and go back to exploring Otaru. I happen upon a shrine that that overlooks the city and plant the wooden popsticle stick in a shrine. I offer a quick prayer to the family and the hostess. One more for my loved ones [including anyone reading these silly blog posts]. And one more for me, if there’s any blessings to spare afterwards.

I circle the town for few hours more before catching a train back to Sapporo, wondering if the gods heard me, and fairly assured that, if they were looking, they would understand; even if I couldn’t communicate on their level.

I hope the stories in heaven are as good as the one’s here. I know I’m finding lots, and that’s the wonder of it all.

Cheers. Love. Prayers.

Winston