The Toyotomi Blades Read Online Free PDF Page A

flight attendants to take care of our needs. When I boarded the plane and climbed the spiral staircase that went to the upper deck, I noticed the plush leather-covered seats for first class in the front of the plane, but I wasn’t envious. On my only other international flight, I was jammed in a MATS plane with more than one hundred other teenagers going to war in Vietnam, all of us trying not to show how scared we were. Business class to Japan was my best flying experience. If that makes me a bumpkin, then I plead guilty.
    Below, on the horizon, came the coast of Japan. All I could see was a thin, gray line that might or might not turn into something more interesting as the plane rushed forward. I was disappointed that the coastline didn’t provide a more spectacular view. Although I’ve never been to Japan, I felt that in some way this was a homecoming. I’ve always considered Hawaii home, even though I’ve now lived in Los Angeles for most of my life. My family’s been in Hawaii since 1896, but my grandfather and grandmother came from Japan. So, although Hawaii is home, Japan is the homeland.
    I’m a Sansei, or third generation Japanese-American. Like most third generation Americans, I’ve forgotten a lot of my roots, but I’m still aware of all sorts of influences on my outlook and actions that are caused by the fact that my grandparents were Japanese. Certainly the way I fit into American society has been affected because of that heritage.
    The airplane’s public address system came to life and something was said in Japanese. I was flying All Nippon Airlines, ANA, and it made me vaguely uncomfortable that all announcements were first made in Japanese and then English. In case of an emergency, I didn’t want every Japanese-speaking passenger up and rushing for an exit while I was still waiting for a translation.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice on the PA finally began in English, “we will be landing at Narita in approximately fifty minutes, so if you have not already done so, please fill out your disembarkation pass for submission to Japanese customs.”
    I checked the small white card that all visitors have to fill out and put it back in my pocket. I took a few deep breaths. At Los Angeles International Airport, I had been surprisingly nervous, and sensing my mood, Mariko had given me an especially loving send-off. I don’t know what I was nervous about, but I think it was a combination of going to Japan for the first time and the prospect of being on television. Like any Angeleno, I’m pretty blase about the entertainment business because there’s so much of it in the city. But this would be my first time on television, and to complicate things, it would be a live show and in Japanese.
    To pass the time, I took a copy of Things Very, Very Japanese by Bob Thomas from my travel bag. I sought the card I had stuck in as a bookmark and started reading a piece on tsuba, Japanese decorative sword guards. I bought three guidebooks for my trip to Japan. Books on Japan are like books about sex or music—they explain things in academic terms, but they can’t convey the feelings or emotions involved in the actual experience.
    I know a lot of individual Japanese words and phrases, and in college I studied Japanese history. Despite that, I never visited the object of my interest. In Yasunari Kawabata’s novel Snow Country there’s a character who’s an expert on Western ballet. In spite of having an encyclopedic knowledge on the subject, he has never actually seen a ballet. In some ways, I emulate this character.
    A few minutes later, I looked out the window again and the gray line on the horizon had turned into a rocky coastline. The plane was too high to make out details, but I could see how rugged and mountainous the land was. As the plane came lower in its approach to Tokyo International Airport at Narita, I saw fall colors breaking through the haze. Red, yellow, and a pale orange splashed the trees that