A downpour of Japanese words I didn't understand burst out of the smiling mouth of a gnarly, bonsai-shaped grandpa. How he managed to balance on those Geta wooden sandals, just by pinching the thongs' silk with his toes defied my knowledge of physics and manifested a genuine smile on my face. The smile I receive in return matched my sincerity.
"Porzia, this is Nabe-san."
"Nabe-san?" I asked, puzzled. "Isn't that the word for stove or oven, or something?"
"Yes, but it is also short for Watanabe, my real name," the ancient man explained.
"You speak English?"
Nabe-san bowed. "But, of course, my young lady. I've spent many years in the Western world."
"Nabe-san is a traditional Junitamago artisan."
"Here we go again," I said, brain wheels whirring in overdrive to remember the little bit of Japanese I knew. "Tamago means egg doesn't it? And juni is a-number?"