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你可能读了满满一书架关于日本的书，但依然没有找到一个清透地反映该国灵魂的“窗口”。而在某天大雨倾盆的东京成田机场，就在飞机起飞前，透过那些地勤人员仪式化的动作，我找到了。 It had been a day of tedious trudging to bus stops and train stations through miserable Tokyo weather: temperatures in the low 40s, icy rain, and a gusty wind that penetrated even the multiple layers of clothing I wore.[1] The nasty conditions only intensified as evening descended, but by then I was at last warm and dry inside Narita Airport and making my way to the gate to board the plane that would take me home.[2] I seldom have an opportunity to look out of an airplane window because when traveling by air I always choose an aisle seat (long legs)[3]. This time, however, the remainder of my row was unoccupied, so once the cabin door was shut I slid over to the porthole to see what I had been missing.[4] Scurrying here and there on the concrete apron of the gate were the members of our ground crew—all of them men, and all of them wearing neatly appointed uniforms and the plastic hard hats that are standard issue in Japan for just about everyone engaged in any sort of manual labor.[5] (I have even seen them on restaurant cooks.) Within a few moments, one crew member who had apparently finished his assigned task walked to an area just to the right of the plane’s fuselage where painted lines on the ground indicated a spot out of harm’s way.[6] I expected him to make a beeline for shelter indoors, but instead he turned to face the plane and then adopted a posture that the military calls “parade rest”—legs straight, feet about shoulder-width apart, arms crossed behind the back.[7] | 
