Wind Chimes and Brothers
A long white beard under a corridor of wind chimes, a floral shirt at a shrine counter, dango eaten on the move — Mi Tro and Ankie came all the way from Belgium, and for one hot July afternoon, Japan was ours to share.
BBrthr began with a simple idea: draw a bearded stranger on the other side of the world, then go and meet him. Usually we are the ones crossing borders. This time the road ran the other way.
Mi Tro (@mitro_bv) and Ankie flew in from Belgium — a beard down to the chest, tattoos down to the wrists, his partner in a sun hat, with a soft, gentle laugh. We had met through a portrait. Now we were meeting in the heat of a Japanese July, and the first thing he did was hug us like we had grown up on the same block.
He walked through the gate in a white BBrthr tee, checking the map on his phone as if he were about to lead the way. In a sense, he was. Seeing your own country through a brother’s eyes makes everything new again.
Ankie went straight for the counter, pointing, asking, smiling at the shrine maiden who smiled right back. No shared language, no problem. A pointed finger and a good laugh have opened more doors on our travels than any phrasebook.
THE BEARD BROTHERHOOD across his back, a vermilion gate overhead. Some things look like they were always meant to be in the same picture.
Then the corridor of wind chimes. Hundreds of them, hanging in rows, each one carrying a wish written on a paper strip, all ringing at once whenever the wind moved. Mi Tro stopped in the middle, looked up, and didn’t say anything for a long time. Ankie took his arm. That was the whole conversation.
Paper pinwheels turning against a blue sky, old lanterns in the shade of the eaves, a hand resting on a wooden post. Japan in summer is a country of small, careful beauties — and he noticed every one.
At the water basin he rinsed his hands the proper way, the tattooed sleeve and the bamboo ladle in the same frame. Two traditions, both about marking something you believe in, meeting for a moment over cold water.
At the amulet stall, the beard drew a small crowd. People here are polite; they don’t stare. They just smile a little longer than usual. He smiled back every single time.
And then dango — sweet rice dumplings on a stick, glazed and still warm. Ankie held the tray, Mi Tro worked through a skewer with the concentration of a man who has found exactly what he came for. We have always said BBrthr is about sharing a pint. On a July afternoon in Japan, a stick of dango does the job just as well.
Deeper in, the garden: a cool mist drifting over the path, a great paper lantern painted with black brushstrokes, folded white paper hanging from a sacred rope. The two of them walked slowly, side by side, the way people do when they don’t want a place to end.
Back out on the street, a narrow lane of old shopfronts and hand-painted signs. He walked ahead, backpack on, a long way from Belgium and somehow completely at home.
At the end of the day we watched him go down the stone steps, one hand on the rail, the white tee getting smaller against the old wooden fence. He turned once and raised a hand. Brothers don’t really say goodbye. They say: next time, your country, your beer.
That is what BBrthr is for. A portrait drawn for a stranger becomes a friend on the other side of the world, and one day the friend gets on a plane. Thank you, Mi Tro. Thank you, Ankie. See you in Belgium.
