Slowly the rice noodles slide into my throat, slipping past my tongue, nearly unnoticed. The sweet barley miso tingles in my cheeks. I sift the scallions from the tofu and press them to pulp with my tongue.
I am not feeling Japanese, even with the green tea stinging my mouth and Yo-Yo Ma tickling my ears. Even with the full tray of sushi before me I am not feeling Japanese. I heap the wasabi hoping to burn my way to the land of the rising sun. Even as my sinuses scream I am not feeling Japanese. Though I find the pickled ginger delightful I am still hopelessly American.
Perhaps a cup of sake, warm and sweet, would bring me to the west pacific. After the eighth cup I jump into my Toyota on a kamikaze mission to Wal-Mart.