Misadventures in Akita
Akita’s downtown felt vaguely familiar, like it could have been any small American city. It was dense with convenience stores, restaurants, and parks, all missing the long lines and tiled roofs we’d grown accustomed to. After a week in Tokyo, its simple grey cement walls with few windows and boxy shape felt so foreign.
We checked in, dropped our bags, and rested before making our way to Senshu Park. On the way, we passed a still pond covered in a blanket of lily pads.
large fronds were held up by long, straight stems that rose gracefully out of the inky black water. They glowed like dainty green handkerchiefs, ruffled at the brims.
A few koi fish swam around lazily and then disappeared amongst the underwater forest.
We walked onward up the gentle slope flanked by trees until we came across a grand wooden gate positioned at the top of a short flight of stairs. It led into an empty and silent courtyard. Overhead, the clouds knit together to form a grey wool blanket in the sky, threatening rain. All was still and quiet, except for the throaty uproar coming from the trees.
A boisterous gathering of crows darted from branch to branch; their deep caws and howls reverberated off the canopy in a tumultuous echo chamber.
Senshu Park is also home to Lyataka Shrine, an impressive 100-year-old site, complete with a small red torii gate tunnel guarded by menacing stone lions, foxes, and dragons. We spent some time walking the grounds and admiring the guard towers.
As the sky darkened, our stomachs began to rumble, and we returned back to town in search of food. We walked street after street only to find darkened windows and locked doors. We consulted our maps and saw most restaurants in the area were closed before 6pm. After the better part of an hour, it had become a ghost town. As the remaining light was drained from the sky, my anxiety and hunger kicked into high gear. We stood on the corner under street lamps, pinching and zooming around our phones until finally, we found something. It was a conveyer belt sushi restaurant, and it was only a few blocks away.
Within minutes we were outside a single-story mall with a giant illuminated billboard on top. We approached the darkened windows and peered inside, looking for signs of life. All the lights were off, and every store was closed except one. Jeremy tried the door handle apprehensively, his eyebrows raised in surprise as it pushed open with ease. We entered timidly, feeling the unsettling darkness lurk down the hall.
Off to the left, the restaurant was ablaze in light. I regained hope when I saw the shapes of people inside. As we pushed the door open, 4 pairs of eyes snapped on us. The restaurant was empty except for two people sitting on the far side of the restaurant.
I looked around, eyeing the still conveyor belt, missing little plates holding sushi. Bright fluorescent lights hummed and cast a bright green tinge over the room. Clanging pots and the sound of running water came from the kitchen. A lone chef stood stoically with his arms folded, his station clean. A waitress greeted us and beckoned us to sit at the bar. Jeremy and I exchanged nervous looks.
“Is this ok?” I asked under my breath, teetering in the doorway.
“You tell me!” he hissed back.
I forced my body forward in an awkward, jerking motion. My mind screamed no, but my stomach screamed yes.
Two menus appeared in front of us as we sat, and the chef pointed to the combination meal, recommending we try a little of everything. We weren’t ready to commit to that much food, so we ordered two items to start.
I pointed to the pictures on the menu, “Kore hitotsu to kore hitotsu onegaishimasu” (One of this and one of this, please). With a short “Hai” and a head nod, the chef began to prepare our dish. Within a minute, he placed two small patterned trays at the edge of the bar.
“Arigato gozaimasu,” we said, taking the food. He returned to his station, crossed his arms, and watched. I picked up a piece of nigiri, immediately dropped it in my soy sauce, then shoved it in my mouth. Jeremy snorted and rolled his eyes as my face reddened. The chef’s unflinching judgment pinned me to my seat, rendering me paralyzed with humiliation. We devoured the two plates, then ordered another four. Each time, he made them swiftly, passed them over to us, and watched and waited. We ate our meal quickly and spoke in hushed voices. The couple across the bar suddenly rose and paid their tab, leaving us painfully alone and guilt-ridden for keeping the restaurant open.
We filled our stomachs just enough to banish hunger pains, and as we reviewed our bill, we realized not only had we ignored our chef’s recommendation, but we still ordered nearly all the same items a la carte.
After paying, we thanked the staff again with a bow and exited. A few steps down the hallway, we could hear the hostess locking the doors behind us. We left the mall, wondering what the hell we had just experienced.
Before returning to our hotel, we stopped at a Lawson to pick up drinks and snacks to enjoy without an audience. Back in the room, I unwrapped a pre-packaged soft-serve ice cream. I took my first bite, looking forward to something cold and refreshing, but found it was hard and chewy, like eating a swirly soft-serve-shaped stress ball.
Jeremy cracked open a can of Highball, thinking it was a Japanese beer brand, but instead discovered it was a strong whiskey soda. We spent the rest of our night in our room trying our mystery snacks and falling asleep as a powerful storm passed over the area.
The following day, we checked out, well-rested and ready to head back to Tokyo. Our time in Akita
reminded me to always say “yes” to those weird moments just in case a fantastic story comes out
of them.