The Purple Umbrella
I have a sneaking suspicion that an umbrella is a bit of a security blanket for many Japanese – rather like the soft and fuzzy ngouk-ngouk I used to carry around with me when I was five and one day accidentally incinerated on a floor heater. If there is a hint of rain – just one errant cloud in the sky – umbrellas start popping up like mushrooms on rotten wood. Shops have extra ones that they give out to customers who might otherwise suffer some terrible, soggy fate. It’s just possible that Japanese are water-soluble and don’t want the world to know.
I don’t carry an umbrella. My backpack weighs 88 pounds, and that’s only after I threw out my flashlight, trashy novel, the bottom half of my toothbrush, and my toilet paper. I am not water soluble, so if it rains I just get wet.

One day as I am leaving a small pension in Tottori, on the back side of Japan, it starts to drizzle. The old lady who owns the place calls after me to wait. She ducks back into her kitchen and re-emerges with a monstrous purple umbrella. It’s made of wood and oiled paper and is sadly scuffed and splintered. She hands it to me. I thank her and hand it back. The thing weighs at least four pounds and has a little yellow knob on the top that makes it look like a cross between a giant pimple and a bruise. We stand there and pass it back and forth until I give in, bow profusely, and shuffle off down the road, clutching the center column of my new semi-portable wood-and-paper ceiling.
Two days and several hundred miles later I can’t stand it anymore. The umbrella doesn’t fit in my pack, won’t hook over my arm -- and since it hasn’t rained for a while, is about as useful as a stick of firewood. I decide to "lose" it. Unfortunately Japan has only two kinds of public garbage receptacles – one for recycled soda cans and the other for newspapers. I feel funny trying to stuff the umbrella through the little round hole meant for cans and am terrified that someone will catch me frivolously disposing of what is clearly a Valuable Tangible Cultural Asset. So I decide to send it to umbrella heaven – the Lost and Found department of the Japan Railway System – where it can party forever with the hundreds of thousands of other umbrellas that get left on trains every year.

I pick a day when I have to make five connections – two of them on the famous bullet train, which stops at each station for less than a minute.
It takes me one connection to get up my nerve. I’m not used to publicly littering. Just the thought makes me hunker down and start looking out of the corners of my eyes like a criminal.

Second connection. The train is standing-room-only. I get up and edge my way to the door. Someone calls out to me. I ignore them. Someone else stops me and gestures over my shoulder. The purple umbrella is making its way towards me, hand over hand. I accept it with profuse apologies, deep appreciation and even deeper bows, then stand outside the train, waving at a smiling carriage full of good citizens. They wave back.

Third connection. This one is a bullet train, with plush seats and only a scattering of people. I sit down next to an Obasan – a Granny – who compliments me on my umbrella. This is a bad sign. I pray that she either gets off or dozes off. Not a chance – she is alert, awake, and solidly seated. When it comes time for me to go I see her eyeing my stuff and I know it’s useless. I reach for my umbrella. She smiles and nods and tells me to take care and good luck.

My next connection is local. I get on. I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t make eye contact. I quickly stuff the purple umbrella into a rack above me, push it way back, and put something on top of it. When we reach my stop I wait until the last minute, sling on my gear and scurry out the door. I sprint up the steps and down to the next platform. My train is due in less than three minutes. Things are looking good. I half expect the umbrella to magically appear behind me, flying through the air all by itself like Mary Poppins. A minute ticks by. Nothing happens.

I’m free! I feel like doing a little jig. With four less pounds to carry, I may even indulge myself with the luxury of a newspaper at the next stop.
I hear a shout, in English. I’m the only Caucasian in the station. I turn. I can’t help it. A young man in a schoolboy’s uniform is standing on the platform outside my old train, waving my umbrella. I wave back a lot less enthusiastically. Even if I wanted to, I can’t go back and get the umbrella or I’ll miss my connection. I feel awkward pretending ignorance while this poor fellow is frantically trying to communicate across two crowded platforms, but the problem will resolve itself as soon as my train arrives. Suddenly, the young man stops signaling and dashes up the stairs. I pray for my train. No good. He’s young. He’s fast. He’s at the top of my platform, taking the steps three at a time. He comes to a panting stop in front of me. He bows. I bow. He offers me my umbrella. I express vast surprise and gushing gratitude. I’ve already decided to own up to ownership. Someone has clearly seen me with the umbrella and can identify me and that’s how the police in this country solve 95% of their crimes.

My train pulls up. He gives me my umbrella. I try to give it back to him as a thank-you gift. He won’t accept it. I bow. He bows. I bow. He bows. I miss my train.

Then, as he disappears in desperate bounds up the stairs to his platform, his train pulls away.

When I’m about to get off my last train, I notice that it’s raining. I grab my umbrella and tuck it under one arm. What’s a couple of pounds, anyway? I’m even starting to like the color purple.

Excerpted from Japanland © 2005 Rodale Press. To purchase, please visit japanlandonline.com