Several weeks ago, I flew to Tokyo, Japan after auditioning for Repertory Philippines’ Mulan Jr. to join my mom Gina, my grandmother Azucena Vera Perez, and her other children to witness the cherry blossoms in bloom. Agreeing to a tight itinerary of whole day affairs and inescapable family obligations enabled me to have some quality time with Mama Nene, as I fondly call her, and the rest of my beloved family. Arriving at the Roppongi area with no more than two hours to shop before our dinner with Mr. Wada, I took a cab to the famed Harajuku District to see for myself what pop icon Gwen Stefani and the whole world had been buzzing about. Two hours seemed like two minutes, shopping and gallivanting in the hub of the weird and eccentric — adjectives that best describe my own personal self and style. As an appetizer of sorts, I grabbed myself one of Harajuku’s famous delicacies — a Caesar Salad crepe which was odd enough to jive with the feel of the place but something that was still surprisingly good! Followed by a sumptuous dinner of shabu-shabu, yolk-drenched sukiyaki, and some world-renowned Kobe beef, the family returned to our Oakwood Residence for much-needed R&R before our early-morning daytrip to Mt. Fuji the next day.
Bunking in with the Vera Perez sisters is probably one of the coolest experiences I’ve ever had in life. You have my fairy mom and her insatiable interest in supernatural orbs, movie guru and life coach Tita Betchay, cool and spunky Tita Chona, and kooky Mama Tutu nested into one apartment of fun and ridiculous mayhem. Go figure! Affection among the siblings was done “cariño brutal,” with mom and Tita Betchay always fighting over who would get first dibs on the kitchen. Then there’s the both of ‘em always bullying Tita Chona for being the youngest, and Mama Tutu playing the unmovable mover of a seeming Oversight Committee. Her will be done. From frivolous to fanciful to the downright esoteric, conversations were always of the interesting kind. And as usual, the fridge was well stocked (momentary flashback to the canned Valencia adobo in Mama Nene’s European Tulip Tour).
The sisters and I woke up early morning the next day to take Mama Nene, who we had jokingly labeled as 90, and Lola Conching as 85, to catch the summit of Mt. Fuji. After a breakfast of rice and Kobe beef (as if we hadn’t had enough the night before), we embarked on a “short” pit stop to a specialty store where you could buy the fanciest Japanese souvenirs there were. Kimonos and chopsticks, and fans… oh my! The place was literally pasalubong-central. Given the time limit set by the unmovable mover of the Oversight Committee, leave it to the other sisters to break the rules and hoard the wares as though there was no tomorrow — which explains my own compulsive and undisciplined buying tendencies. Meanwhile, Mama Tutu and I checked out a conveyor belt sushi place near the store to experience the modern way in which the oriental dish was served.
We finally headed to Mt. Fuji after everybody had satiated their souvenir hunt for the day. The two-hour trip felt short in the presence of good company but long in the absence of authentic Japanese food. So as soon as we got to the viewing point of the famed location, the merry crew headed to the nearest restaurant for some country-style tempura, pork curry, and good ol’ fashioned udon. The food was spectacular, with servings of two or three being consumed by each one. People got from other people’s plates while others didn’t wait at all until everyone got their orders. That’s just a Vera Perez for you. The bathroom however was a different story. Imagine a unisex bathroom cubicle where there was no toilet you could sit on; instead, a floor panel on top of which you could stand and do your thing. It was a parcel of Japanese culture that I just couldn’t comprehend. So imagine my frustration when I went through all the trouble of cleaning the teensy weensy toilet space that protruded from the marble floor just so I could actually sit like a king on his throne during potty time when sound effects started to play on the bathroom speaker. The owners of the restaurant could invest thousands of yen in auto flush and some audio simulation of a waterfall while you do your thing yet they couldn’t invest in a toilet? What that’s all about, I’ll never know.
Furthermore, luck seemed to escape us that day as low-lying clouds enshrouded the summit of Mt. Fuji. You could barely see past the cumulus veil that masked the mountaintop, a spectacle that was usually dressed in snow even during such hot summer days. After hours of waiting and procrastinating in the nearest convenience store, Fuji refused to budge. Even our own unmovable mover couldn’t scare the life out of ‘em. Still, our family couldn’t resist a photo opportunity by the lake overlooking the base of the famous landmark. After cutting our losses and remembering the fun memories we had in exchange, we decided to escape into the nearest shopping outlet that featured a sale on both affordable and high-end brands, and Cold-friggin’–stone ice cream for some therapy and release. But where our bus had been merrily rolling along, by a cliff overlooking Mt. Fuji, the ethereal goddess finally unsheathed herself, in the most splendid way possible. It was deep magic that only someone like Mama Nene could make happen. After all, it was one half of her Japanese itinerary, the other being to catch the cherry blossoms. Finding a rest stop along the way, we got down from the bus to capture some more Kodak moments by the opulent Mt. Fuji. Cameras on and cameras clicking, Fuji-san’s revelation was the perfect photo finish to Mama Nene’s Japan Trip 2008.
As youths get older, we tend to forget family in light of the fascinating friends we make. Moreover, growing up exposes us to the concept of autonomy in which we try to establish ourselves away from our family and find our own place in the sun. Youths learn to talk back, make takas, and seek home elsewhere in the attempts of trying to make it on their own. And some forget family altogether. This trip served as a rude awakening for me in many ways. I realized that, truly, blood runs thicker than water. You can choose your friends but you can’t choose family ‘coz, at the end of the day really, they’re all you’ve got. You can, however, choose not to overstuff yourself with Kobe at every damn meal and prevent delusions of grandeur and severe indigestion. But that’s Vera Perez for you. Age aside, it’s nice to know that some things just don’t change.
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Catch your breath and let me know what you think at imcalledtoffee@mac.com.
