They said greetings to each other, he accepted the room for me, and went out. It was a
really
wonderful room. There were all the regular,
standard things that you know of now, but it was all new to me. There was a little
alcove with a painting in it, a vase with pussywillows nicely
arranged, a table along the floor with a cushion nearby, and at the end of the room were two sliding doors which opened onto a garden.
The lady who was supposed to take care of me was a middle-aged woman. She helped me undress and gave me a
yukata
, a simple blue and white
robe, to wear at the hotel.
I pushed open the doors and admired the lovely garden, and sat down at the table to do a little work.
I wasn't there more than fifteen or twenty minutes when something caught my eye. I looked up, out towards the garden, and I saw,
sitting at the
entrance to the door, draped in the corner, a very beautiful young Japanese woman, in a most lovely outfit.
I had read a lot about the customs of Japan, and I had an idea of why she was sent to my room. I thought, "This might be very interesting!"
She knew a little English. "Would you rike to see the garden?" she asked.
I put on the shoes that went with the
yukata
I was wearing, and we went out into the garden. She took my arm and showed me everything.
It turned out that because
she knew a little English, the hotel manager thought I would like her to show me the garden--that's all it was. I was a
bit disappointed, of course, but this was a meeting of cultures, and I knew it was easy to get the wrong idea.
Sometime later the woman who took care of my room came in and said something--in Japanese--about a bath. I knew that Japanese baths were
interesting and was eager to try it, so I said, "
Hai
."
I had read that Japanese baths are very complicated. They use a lot of water that's
heated from the outside, and you aren't supposed to get soap
into the bathwater and spoil it for the next guy.
I got up and walked into the lavatory section, where the sink was, and I could hear some guy in the next section with the door closed, taking a
bath. Suddenly the door slides open: the man taking the bath looks to see who is intruding. "Professor!" he says to me in English. "That's a very bad
error to go into the lavatory when someone else has the bath!" It was Professor Yukawa!
He told me that the woman had no doubt asked do I
want
a bath, and if so, she would get it ready for me and tell me when the bathroom was free.
But of all the people in the world to make
that serious social error with, I was lucky it was Professor Yukawa!
That Japanese-style hotel was delightful, especially when people came to see me there. The other guys would come in to my room and we'd sit
on the floor and start to talk. We wouldn't be there more than five minutes when the woman who took care of my room would come in with a tray of
candies and tea. It was as if you were a host in your own home, and the hotel staff was helping you to entertain your guests. Here, when you have
guests at your hotel room, nobody cares; you have to call up for service, and so on.
Eating meals at the hotel was also different. The girl who brings in the food
stays with you while you eat, so you're not alone. I couldn't have too
good a conversation with her, but it was all right. And the food is wonderful. For instance, the soup comes in a bowl that's covered. You lift the cover
and there's a beautiful picture: little pieces of onion floating in the soup just so; it's gorgeous. How the food looks on the plate is very important.
I had decided that I was going to live Japanese as much as I could. That meant eating fish. I never liked fish when I was growing up, but I found
out in Japan that it was a childish thing:
I ate a lot of fish, and enjoyed it. (When I went back to the United States the first thing I did was go to a fish
place. It was horrible--just like it was before. I couldn't stand it. I later discovered the answer: The fish has to be very, very fresh--if it isn't, it gets a
certain taste that bothers me.)
One time when I was eating at the Japanese-style hotel I was served a round, hard thing, about the size of an egg yolk, in a cup of some yellow
liquid. So far I
had eaten everything in Japan, but this thing frightened me: it was all convoluted, like a brain looks. When I asked the girl what it was,
she replied "
kuri
." That didn't help much. I figured it was probably an octopus egg, or something. I ate it, with some trepidation, because I wanted to
he as much in Japan as possible. (I also remembered the word "
kuri
" as if my life depended on it--I haven't forgotten it in thirty years.)
The next day I asked a Japanese guy at the conference what this convoluted thing was. I told him I had found it very difficult to eat. What the
hell was "
kuri
"?
"It means 'chestnut.' " he replied.
Some of the Japanese I had learned had quite an effect.
One time, when the bus was taking a long time to get started, some guy says, "Hey,
Feynman! You know Japanese; tell 'em to get going!"
I said, "
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
