At Narita Airport in Tokyo, my husband and I boarded a puddle jumper to Fukuoka to join a week-long tour visiting sake breweries dotting the coastline of northern Kyushu. I didn’t catch the staticky announcement over the PA, but a smiling flight attendant wearing her newly-debuted uniform immediately came by and passed out beautifully wrapped bags of nuts. The nuts tasted unusually bland, but I was famished and devoured the whole thing.
Just six weeks prior, I ruptured my Achilles in Boot Camp and had my tendons surgically stitched together. After endless weeks of pleading with the orthopedic doctor, he finally gave me the approval to take the much-anticipated sake trip. With prescription painkillers in hand, a set of crutches, and a gawky orthopedic boot that weighed a ton, I was on my way to taste the best sake in the world. My biggest fear was the possibility of hobbling into one of those squat toilets prevalent in rural Japan.
On the drive to our first sake brewery, our tour leader, Etsuko, gave us an overview of the sake-making process, and its role in Japanese culture. She said, “By the way, today is Setsubun Day, and it’s celebrated all over Japan. Families celebrate by performing Mamemaki, a bean-tossing ceremony in front of their homes, shouting Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi! Demons out, good fortune in.” Etsuko explained it was a day of spiritual cleansing to drive evil spirits out of the house and to pray for a prosperous new year. She said, “In fact, you all probably received a bag of Mamemaki beans on your flight this morning.”
My face turned bone-white. I looked at my husband and then to Etsuko. I told her, “I did get some beans but I ate them.”
“You ATE them?” she asked. She looked at me as if I had just committed a cultural felony.
Horrified that I may have angered Buddha and his holy disciples, I quickly said “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Why? What is going to happen to me?”
Etsuko replied, “Well, you weren’t supposed to eat the beans.”
Needless to say, for the rest of the week, I dreaded something horrific was going to happen. It’s all I could think about. Those darn demons were going to come after me. Would I accidentally overdose on my prescription painkillers while drinking sake? Would I trip on my crutches and fall into the sake vat? Would I choke on a piece of sushi? Then I started thinking about all the Japanese obake or ghost stories I used to read as a child. Japanese ghosts were ruthless. Relentless. They went after people who’ve committed unthinkable crimes. I was doomed.
But the week went by, and to my relief, the ingested spiritual beans did not cause any catastrophic disaster. I didn’t overdose. I didn’t fall into a squat toilet. I didn’t trip over my big fat orthopedic boot. Instead, I spent the week drinking the best sake Kyushu had to offer.
Demons out, good fortune in.
Six months later, I scaled the 90-minute climb to the Guard Tower in Machu Picchu.
It was a year of good fortune indeed.
