Page 2 of Little Miss Fortune

The Hokuriku Shinkansen, the high-speed rail line from Tokyo to Kanazawa, is packed. Japanese salarymen booked up all the bookable seats, leaving the cheapskates (like me) and foreigners (like me) to tussle for the remaining unreserved seats. I got a middle seat, obviously.

The regional shinkansen jingle announces our departure from the capital. The take-off is seamless and silent, as if a heron flapped its wings once and disappeared from sight.

I don’t think I have ever seen so many foreigners travelling to Toyama. Toyama Prefecture has beautiful nature, but few tourist attractions. During the Second World War, America had bombed and destroyed 98 percent of the city. Life in Toyama was measured; you had to look for fun activities, as outside of the main city centre, every tenth building was an abandoned pachinko parlour. Winters were snowy but wet; springs were delicate; summers were brutal, and autumn. Oh, autumn. Everyone talks about the pathetic little sakura trees, but the true beauty of Japan is in the changing leaves, in the scent of ripe apricots that lingers in your mind when the sweet orange osmanthuses bloom, in the first snow that settles on the peaks of Tateyama, making them pierce through the sky, when the humidity and temperature drop. That is heaven.

I am here midsummer, however, feeling sweat sticking to the skin under my bra.

A can of Strong Zero—9 percent alcohol with a punchy lemon smell—falls on my lap, which would normally cause annoyance but is a temporary respite in this weather. ‘Moushiwake arimasen,’ the man says. Then, looking closely at me, adds in English, ‘Ah, sorry! Sorry.’

‘Zen-zen, daijoubu desu.’ I wave a hand in front of my face, acknowledging his apology.

‘Nihon-go jouzu desu ne!’ the man exclaims, praising my Japanese.

I explain I am Japanese.

The man stares with great intent at my face, shakes his head, and returns to his variety show, cracking another can of Strong Zero.

Ah, good to be back, I think, scrubbing the damned spot with a serviette as if I’m Lady Macbeth, trying very hard not to grumble obscenities. On a different note, this might mean that Dad’s genes are too strong, a point towards his having small luck.

The train jingle sounds, letting the passengers know we are arriving at Toyama. I grab my travel backpack from the overhead bin. As soon as I step off the train, the humidity suffocates my senses. The rainy summer tsuyu season is about to begin.

The station looks nothing like it did thirteen years ago. Glass walls and ceilings let the light through, shining onto the grey concrete blocks. It looks modern, clean, and so many foreigners pour out of each carriage. What are they doing here?

An Australian man and woman get stuck at the ticket gates.

‘You need to put both of the tickets in,’ I explain.

‘Ah! Ari-ga-tou!’ the man clasps his hands together and bows.

Their genuine enthusiasm makes me smile as I pass through behind them. Hmm, maybe Dad’s genes aren’t that strong. A point towards his having small misfortune.

I exit the train station through the south gate, shopping centres on the left and right, a tram hooting a warning at careless people crossing the tracks as it approaches the covered tram bay. The information kiosk is covered with a structure spraying out cooling mist, letting people who are waiting for the buses cool down in the shade. Everything looks new; I barely recognise... anything, really.

The hotel is across the road. The check-in is seamless—the key is to start speaking to the people at the reception in Japanese before they swap to English. It takes a second for my brain to recalibrate into the correct language, but with only two pensive eto-o-o’s, I am back in business. The hotel room is compact but clean. Right now, it’s about five o’clock. The sun is still up, but the thirteen-hour plane journey and a three-hour shinkansen ride are taking their violent toll on my body. I go in search of food.

Right next door is a restaurant that sells the regional specialty, black ramen. Secret ingredient? Very salty soy sauce. It is highly contested whether it’s good and whether anyone really likes it or just pretends to because it’s from Toyama. I enjoy it, but I’ll avoid it today. I have never finished the broth without a week-long stomach ache.

I weigh the possibility of going to the fourth floor of the CIC building, a shopping complex opposite the station, to dine at the heights of gastronomy—Saizeriya is an Italian family restaurant that would give an actual Italian person a stroke—but a group of cool-looking high-schoolers with a bouquet of colourful character key chains attached to their school bags enter the lift before me. I don’t want them to see me shamelessly order five mini pizzas to my table and mix my soft drinks at the soda machine. I turn away. Convenience store food it is, then.

When you’ve been unlucky your whole life, there are some ways in which you can prepare. My card didn’t work at 7-Eleven, as I expected it wouldn’t, which is why I brought cash with me.

The new thousand-yen note with the image of The Great Wave goes into the machine three times.

It’s strange being in a different country on my own, even if it is my hometown. I understand most of the language, even if it takes me longer to read certain characters, and yet... It feels so different. The fashion for example... Despite the heat, everyone’s arms and legs are almost fully covered. My bright orange T-shirt and shorts attracted attention I didn’t expect at this time of the year. My dark hair used to blend in, but now all the women over the age of 18 have their hair dyed in brighter colours.

I joked about being a foreigner on the way here, but the curious stares from the shop-goers... Is that what people see when they look at me here, another foreigner?

I get myself some tuna and mayo onigiri, snacks for tomorrow, a variety of potato crisps, Tough gummies, chocolate bread, yakisoba pot noodle, strawberry milk, and an Aquarius sports drink—all of which lie on my bed in a chaotic spread, as I scroll through the TV channels. It will lightly rain at about ten o’clock tomorrow, so I make a mental note to bring a raincoat.

The packet-garnished noodles hit the spot and are washed down by a new grapefruit-flavoured Strong Zero, inspired by the confused man on the train. With all the wrappers disposed of, three different types of drink finished, I let myself relax in a bubble bath. Japanese baths and toilets—unbeatable.

Reconnecting with my roots so far hasn’t gone as planned. I’m awkward and tense. More than normal, that is—I wouldn’t call myself the apex of affective presence on a normal day. My speech that, yes, is rusty and informal, comes out more anxious and unnatural. I guess it doesn’t matter; my target is the top of the mountain (with a small detour).

That’s it, Fuko. Don’t let it get to you.

The bath plug is released, and I get dressed in the hotel pyjamas.

The lights turn off; the alarm is set; eye mask on. My body does this thing when it still thinks it’s on a plane that’s going through turbulence for a few minutes. I fight the dizzying feeling and am so close to falling asleep when I hear horrible loud and obnoxious moans through the wall, snapping me back awake. I am pretty sure this hotel is mainly used by commuting salarymen, so hopefully one of their spouses came to visit.