The Poncho, the Physiologist, and the Perfect Goodbye

October 24th, 2024

Naha, Okinawa, Japan

The universe always has a way of orchestrating perfect endings. On my final evening in Japan, serendipity wrote me a love letter in the form of an unexpected reunion with Daniela.

I'd first met her just days ago on Tokashiki Island, when she'd collapsed her trekker's backpack next to my hostel bed with a weary thud. "¡Bienvenida!" I'd called out, launching into Spanish when she mentioned Mexico, her homeland. She'd humored my clumsy attempts at her native tongue, both of us lamenting Japan's modest fruit selection compared to Mexico's abundant treasures. As my Spanish steam ran dry, we switched back to English.

That night, she tried to warn me: "I'm leaving tomorrow morning because there's going to be a crazy typhoon over Tokashiki, and they're canceling the ferries," she'd said. "I'm taking the next boat out just to be safe." 

But I, in my stubborn wisdom, had replied, "Oh, I hadn't planned on escaping a typhoon. I think I'm going to stay and wait it out and see what happens." At least I'd had the sense to add, "Well, I'm glad that we met. Even if you leave tomorrow morning, I'm glad that we got to spend this time."

The next morning, our hostel owner shuttled us off in different directions – Daniela to the port, me to the beach for another snorkel. As I floated among the coral, the question ate at me: was I about to get stuck on Tokashiki for a week? I found myself seeking counsel from the little fish darting around me in their electric blue iridescent hues. Their silent wisdom was clear: Get out. Why stay trapped on a tiny island with no restaurants or infrastructure when a typhoon hits? Better to weather the storm in a vibrant city than a tiny shack. Finally accepting their aquatic advice, I booked it on the next ferry out, about 24 hours after Daniela had made her escape.

Back in Naha, convinced Daniela must be in some distant prefecture by now, I was minding my own business– until I spotted her. There she was – a vision in a white sundress, lost in whatever melody was flowing through her wired earbuds. I yanked off my bulky black headphones and tapped her shoulder, watching her face bloom into recognition.

"Thank you for tapping me," she beamed. "I didn't know if I would ever see you again."

"Me neither, but here we are, Daniela."

The cosmic choreography continued as we discovered we were both spending our last night in Japan, both headed to different places the next day – she to South Korea, where I'd just been. When I offered to share my Korean recommendations over conveyor belt sushi, her eyes lit up. "In the month I've been here, I still haven't had conveyor belt sushi!" she admitted. When I suggested we meet at her hotel at seven, she quipped, "Oh, you'll pick me up? How chivalrous."

I danced back to my hostel, played some guitar, did my laundry, and dressed for the evening – favorite earrings, beads around my neck, hair tied up in a bandana. I arrived five minutes early to find her already waiting outside. Our conversation flowed like oolong tea as we made our way to dinner – her stories of wide-eyed wonder in my native New York at age ten, my tales of Mexico City adventures from six months ago. We dove into what it means to be twenty-two, as we both were, though half my pop culture references sailed over her head. "I live under a rock, I'm sorry," she kept saying, each time more endearing than the last.

The conveyor belt sushi restaurant became our playground. I watched Daniela's eyes widen at the parade of colorful plates, teaching her the art of split-second sushi decisions. "Isn't it amazing how this meal invites you to be so quick, decisive, and assertive?" I mused. "At any other restaurant, you're liable to spend fifteen minutes glancing at the menu in option paralysis." We turned dinner into sport, taking turns snatching maki rolls off the belt and ordering nigiri on our table’s digital tablet, sharing the plates with ceremonial synchronicity, rating each one out of ten.

Then came the wasabi challenge – our philosophical truth serum. One person would eat a bit of wasabi, the next would eat more, and with tears streaming and sinuses burning, we'd pose deep questions to each other. Between sneezes and sweats, I asked her about her college major. Fighting back tears, she explained why she chose physiology: “I thought it would be the most helpful in leading the best life I can. Regardless of whatever career I choose, I knew that the knowledge I learned in physiology would positively impact my health, contribute to my longevity, and boost my overall mental and physical wellness!" The wasabi failed to deter her eloquent speech.

"No way! I'm a yoga teacher! I’m obsessed with physiology," I blurted out, and suddenly we were two nerds comparing notes across the divide between Western medicine and Eastern wisdom. She'd studied four years at McGill University under doctors; I'd learned from yoga masters in the mountains of Nepal. Yet we found ourselves arriving at the same truths – the sweet spot where science meets spirit, where modern medicine and ancient tradition shake hands. We traded exercise routines, guided meditations, foods for longevity, sleep habits, and journaling prompts. I couldn't help but admire the passionate glimmer in her eyes as she shared her vast knowledge of human design.

Hours dissolved. The restaurant staff began their closing ritual, mopping around our feet as we continued our rapid-fire exchange. Outside, the oncoming typhoon had transformed Naha into a glistening dreamscape. When Daniela pulled out her expertly folded, extra-large rain poncho, I joked that it was oversized enough for us both to fit inside. Instead, I ducked into a convenience store and bought an umbrella big enough to shelter us both.

As we walked back through the gleaming streets, I reflected on my two months traversing Japan from north to south. From the biggest city in the world to the quietest rural village, from mountain-climbing grandpas who never broke a sweat to eight-year-old musical prodigies who put my skills to shame – all of it had carved itself into my heart.

Under that umbrella, sharing our last moments in the Land of the Rising Sun, I realized that sometimes the most perfect goodbyes come disguised as chance encounters with Mexican physiologists who live under rocks, carry extra-large ponchos, and understand exactly why both ancient yogis and modern doctors tell us to breathe deeply and eat our vegetables.

Love,

Etai