Japan Journal — Evan Christenson

The stress in my shoulders is the most prevalent feeling I have right now. It grips me whole as we sit in the third rental car place of the day. I’m on hold with another agency trying to get someone who speaks any English. No avail, we’ll come to learn that every single rental car in this city of 9 million’s been rented, and we’re dead out of options. Anxious desperation hits, where to next…

I lie on the ground waiting for the wind of the incoming subway to wake me from this stress coma. I lapse in and out of consciousness through a symphony of loudspeaker chimes and passing Japanese- a thinning veil of white noise. Tokyo’s buzzing energy has become a soft confusion, a long exposure on a windy night. Commuters drop their yen rhythmically into the vending machine. The subway booths flutter open and closed letting loose a flood of 9 million faces I’ll forget as they match my gaze.

I love the smell of the subway stations in Tokyo. It reminds me of sand, the sandbox type I used to play in when I was a child. I liked the way the dust smelled both clean and dirty when it was dry and I liked how it would crunch in my teeth. I liked the endless impossibilities and subtle mysteries that lie in a pile of sand. What could I build with all that sand? Where could this next subway take me?

But “Where the fuck is my motorcycle” is my isolated, grumbling thought right now. I had been dreaming of riding motorcycles across Japan since we had the idea two weeks ago. Peter’s unjustified level of confidence in foreign laws left us stranded with no bike and few options. I’ll continue to dream as I drag a bag filled with my dad’s old leather jacket and a parting romance. Luck would have it we’d find a basic K-car to rent in a small garage just outside Inagi. “You ungrateful bastard” Peter mustered as he signed the $12 a day fee. My excitement to finally have transportation was surely masked by the incessant whining over the doors and four wheels. The man in the garage’s English was surprisingly good. We laugh together while trying to sort out the rules written in our International Drivers Permits. I spot a small Yamaha sr400 buried in the corner and dream of what could've lay ahead.

The hunt for illegal bikes has led us in some weird directions

We celebrated our small victory in a tavern down the road. Peter was cautious, he’s yet to eat outside a hotel, and surely his battle with a stomach bug in France a couple years prior wrestles at the back of his mind. Holding the heavy wooden door and crouching under the frame, we step into another century. The inside is a foreign history I’m still unfamiliar with. Everything is wooden, the staff is dressed in black and white, and small hand painted kanji notes are nailed to the walls. I feel comfortable for the first time all day- the warmth from the stove convincing us to stay. We sit in a large wooden booth, sat next to us are three grizzled men with dried paint on their pants. Their conversation flows smoothly, brief pauses to eat interlaced with guttural laughter. They seem comfortable together. They’ve practiced this.

The woman that walks over is beautiful, one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen since we arrived two days prior. She walks on her forefeet lightly with a hurried tranquility, laughing with the other workers that too look suspiciously young. She blushes as we begin to play a game I’ll soon become an expert of. “Give us whatever is best” I try to translate, but she doesn’t understand. The menu is all in Kanji, no English, no pictures. She tries to explain, the three of us laughing together to ease the tension from a long day of bureaucracy. There’s no escaping this cultural barrier- I can’t even try to assimilate, I’ve never felt so foreign. I feel it when people stare on the subway, or unnaturally move out of my way when walking. “It’s a whole ‘nother world over there” my grandfather would warn. How right he would be.

The conversation next to us lulls as the men pull out cigarettes. Their smoke dances with the steam coming off a bowl of Udon placed in front of me. I don’t know what’s all inside, but it’s warm and feels good in my empty stomach. I’ll get another round of Kierans and Peter and I will talk aimlessly as the rain begins to fall heavily outside. I don’t want to leave this little inn just yet, it’s all too wonderful. This is it Peter- welcome to Japan.

A Shinto festival in Shinjuku the night prior

An early start the next day. I drink some coffee to fight through the jet lag and take in the sights of Kawasaki. There’s not much here, a bike path I catch Peter glancing at as riders roll past, a power plant, and an illuminated shopping center I’d venture around late last night looking for a bar. I’d find one, “Girls Bar” is advertised on a pink drive thru-esque sign. We already ate, but again, a beer sounds nice. Several men are sat at the bar, and the female bartenders were all flirtatious. I got a Sapporo and drank as the bartender and I laughed uncomfortably at the intense music videos playing on the old box set tv in the corner. They reminded me of the dance crews in the underground garages at UCLA thrashing in the shadows, hair flying to an electronic beat, sliding in synchrony. I eventually grew bored of the small bar and leave. The bartender eagerly followed me out. ~$30 for a beer, should I have expected something else?

A quick google search reveals Girl Bars are common in Japan. There are different variations, but men come and pay extra money to talk with the female bartenders. For practice or with romantic intent depends on the patron, but hourly rates mean the bartenders job is to keep the patron content and in his chair. My bartender doesn’t speak English, and my Japanese is laughable, so our conversation left something to be desired. At least I got some practice.

We spend the whole day in the car. We see little, and tensions between Peter and I rise as we yearn for more. I’ll hop out and take some photos, we’ll tour a small temple. It’s all a surface deep understanding, not the integration we’re seeking. I wanted to be holding this country in my hands today, feeling it’s undulations, grasping the way these people and this land stretches outwards towards the sea. But right now we’re sitting in traffic, the type that slinks around with nowhere to be.

Peter, a 51 year old married businessman, is my best friend. I grew up training with him, and after I asked him if he wanted to ride across France with me a couple years prior, he fell head into endurance racing. So Peter had entered the Japanese Odyssey, a 10 day unsupported bike race around the Shikoku island a couple weeks prior and wanted to do a scouting trip to learn the route. The 1,300 mile, 12 checkpoint route we’d mapped out meant we were supposed to see at least 3 points a day to remain on track but we were quickly learning how big of an ask that would be. Today we spend 10 hours in the car and make it up one pass. We talk vaguely of the sole checkpoint trying to gain something from all of our efforts to get out here, but there's a quiet understanding of how fickle it is. We both know we aren’t going to achieve what we set out for. Maybe we turn back and reset.

That night we couldn’t find a place to stay. For hours we drive away from the course looking for a four star hotel. Peter’s years of diligence building a business empire echo whenever he’s forced to stay in anything less than idyllic. We find a small hotel in a dirty, lost town. I toss some Yen in the vending machine outside to grab more beer while we wait for dinner. The streets are quiet and the mountains shadow the little light from the moon. Are all the kids around here alcoholics?

Peter grumbles as we check in. The rotting smell emulating from the kitchen climbs the small rickety elevator and floods the halls and I think of how the automated toilet seat will feel clasped in my arms as I drink from the water pitcher. The food is terrible, but at least the menus have pictures so we know what mess we’re getting into. We plot for the next day over fried cheeses and Udon. We’ll turn back for Tokyo in the morning and try and find a bike and a motorcycle. Peter moans about the beds all night and day trades through the early morning hours.

The drive back into Tokyo is full of beautiful, lush mountains reminiscent of the King Kong movies. The freeway laces through the peaks and valleys with large arching over passes that must’ve cost billions to construct. The impractical spending of this country is everywhere. I was talking with a local as I left the Imperial Gardens in Tokyo a couple days prior. We’d crossed the road and begun walking towards a local park- he was giving me advice on where to go for dinner that night. He stops his sentence and laughs. “It’s hilarious this, there are literally nine crossing guards for a single intersection.” I hadn’t even noticed. There’s almost no traffic here with plenty of visibility and yet, there are actually nine crossing guards for one small, straightforward intersection. They keep their busy facade holding the two cars stopped and stand tall as the three of us walk by. Walking into the gardens earlier that day five people checked my measly belongings for security, two people offered pamphlets, three gave directions-I was the only one in line. I love this country.

The traffic never ended these first days. We sit in defiant gridlock for three hours desperate to get back to Tokyo. For the first time in my life I run through the entire 99 bottles of beer song. Back in Tokyo Peter can’t find a bicycle to ride and he’s miserable. We go to stay in a nice resort so he can ride the stationary in the gym. I don’t complain, they have a piano in the basement and an outdoor hot tub overlooking the Rainbow Bridge I’ll soak in that evening.

There’s a motorcycle shop up the street, a Rental819 which I’d already had a Yamaha XSR700 on reserve in another town. I hate the idea of treading water, of coming this far and falling short, of sitting idle. Two days before we left I got my motorcycle license in the mail- the quintessential symbol of rebellion I’d always lusted for. I love rebellion, and today, that familiar feeling beckons.

There’s a Sportster 1200 buried in the corner. It’s black with a heaping front tire and a mean stance. I look at all the other bikes, but I yearn for what the Harley entails. “It’s only available for two days” The shop attendant has caught me staring at it for a substantial amount of time. I don’t remember how I convinced myself that this was a good idea. But I doubt I ever truly needed the convincing. I really wanted it- I felt the desire racing through my soul.

I was giddy as they rolled it outside. They let me start it up and through the belting V-twin my laugh barked deafeningly inside my helmet. I’d never ridden on a public road before. So here I am- overtly giddy, exhausted, definitively aroused on a brand new to me 550 pound bike on the other side of the world and new to public roads. I can’t read the road signs and we’re on the wrong side of the road. Look both ways, little throttle, let the clutch out. The bike rolls will remarkable ease- the American V-twin produces gobs of torque. I round the corner and grab the gas. I’ve never experienced such a violent acceleration- I’m laughing so loudly it hurts. I try and figure out the heavy brakes as I come to a stop and endlessly rev the throttle feeling the rumble deep through my body as I wait for the light to turn green.

Riding through the Tokyo harbor in Odaiba was easily the most badass I’ve ever felt. The sun begins to set, silhouetting my body on the roads moving in and out of focus ever rapidly. My dad’s leather jacket is unzipped, producing a light hum with the wind. I have on an old UCLA shirt and my skintight khaki cutoffs. My 20 year old white converse flap in the wind. Idling into a dockside parking spot some oil spits at my legs. I’ve decided this is where I’ll watch the sunset tonight and hopefully gather myself before the ride home.

“I’m gonna fly home Evan, I don’t have any problems changing your flight too if you want.” I couldn’t say I was surprised, but Peter saying this over dinner was still unsettling. I’d always wanted to travel alone, but now a once pipe dream lapsed into practicality. I’ll choose to stay, “Yeah I’ll go and scout all your checkpoints out and give you details on them.” We both know it’s a lie, but I use it to justify how stupidly bold this decision felt in the moment. I’ll call my dad laughing about how incredible the last couple hours have been, and excited for what the near future now holds. Even my father, the wildest man I’ve ever met, says to not do it- but there’s no turning back. I’ve tasted the Kool-Aid, the vivid, granular, stuck in your teeth kind of Kool-Aid and my god it tastes good. I wait for the adrenaline to slowly run off. An icepick against Antarctica- I’ll be riding this high all night. Peter and I aimlessly watch the news in the hotel. He’s trading stocks and I’m on craigslist desperately searching for cheap Harleys in LA. I’ll pick a pass up north to aim for tomorrow. There’s some rain in the forecast. I don’t sleep much.

I haven’t quite figured out how to navigate myself yet. Downtown Tokyo is a mess of freeways, overpasses, toll roads, by ways. The signs are in Kanji and what is written in English has no meaning to me. I load up the Bandai-Azuma Skyline, a road famous in the motorcycling community several hundred miles north. I’ve never ridden on a freeway before, but the nav in my pocket leads me into an on ramp. Hard on the gas- I hold tight, terrified and elated. Yet another fantastic giggle drowns out the exhaust. Inability to outrun danger won’t prove to be a problem on the Hog- I just hope I don’t run head on into it. The nav leads me blindly, “follow road signs for…” and I’ll begin to laugh as she deludes me with 15 incomprehensible syllables. The words I’m counting on to lead me disobey the little English written on the road signs. I’ll navigate mostly on feel getting it right only rarely.

I get lost a couple times leaving the city, but once I find the right freeway it’s all smooth sailing. I’ll throw on some music to pass the flat hours, rolling onto the gas to jump from the sections where the traffic’s collected. The power of the wind is incredible fully exposed at 100 miles an hour. I’m lying on the tank to hide from the wind but the buffer is deafening. I lose the sound of the exhaust and hum of the engine in the wind- the bike now being propelled by some altruistic power I can neither see nor feel. Is this god writhing between my legs? I’ll pull off the freeway soon, she’s a thirsty one this, and try and gather myself again. It’s slowly becoming a recurring theme- Sensory overload has left me frozen again. The station attendant is watching me fumble with my gloves unable to figure out the Japanese on the pump. I give a shrug and press my hands together. Help please

There’s a point after some time on a bicycle where the wind begins to fall to the background. The motions become second nature- fluid like and easy. Presence lapses from physical to a dream as your feet fall in rhythm. It’s here I’ve always thought the best, revelations rolling through with mile markers. I love this feeling, and crave it often, but it’s been elusive the last couple months as I’ve been unable to ride. I ultimately came to Japan searching for it. I’ll search alone in the mountains and next to the coast. I’ll search late in the city, and early on backroads. I’m eagerly expecting it, but right now, it’s elusive. A screaming Harley, with a heaving thump at idle leaves little room for melodramatics. Even less while you hustle it through mountain roads.

I’ve turned off the freeway an hour ago, favoring my chances stumbling onto sweeping backroads. I land the jackpot, but realize how gruesomely out-biked I am. The Hog screams as I lean it over, scraping pegs to remind me of mediocre limits I’ll dance with for half the day. This is bliss though, loading the bike through corners with the throttle is a sensation I’m new to. I piece together trail braking through smaller than expected corners. The scenery hurtling past is incredible- small mountain springs and beautiful waterfalls, towering Beech trees huddled tight. I’m too focused to look around though. More power. More

Another gas station, but I’ll stop and grab some snacks this time. Haribo, a coke, and wasabi peas from the FamilyMart. I thumb through the imposing stack of pornography they have on display. The two stands, each with at least 50 different magazines, are a blunt introduction to a convoluted sex culture in Japan. It feels taboo at points, but the hookers that approached Peter and I in Tokyo proved the opposite. There’s a sticker to prevent people from flipping through, but it’s laughably ineffective. A Japanese girl from the subway spreads her legs on the cover surrounded by pink bubbly kanji characters. Next to her is a group of women dressed as school girls. Anime is the stack over.

Japan's porn industry is a $20 billion a year economic powerhouse. It’s reaches are global- according to Pornhub, ‘hentai’ was the second most searched term in 2018. Social changes due to an increasingly prevalent porn industry mean Japan’s birth rate is plummeting. In 2018, a governmental survey revealed that 44% of Japanese millenials are virgins. Less sex and more porn has lead to Japan’s largest ever population decline last year at almost half a million. Tax breaks, public outreach programs, and state supported child care serve to incentivize couples to have more children, but so far these policies haven’t demonstrated efficacy. Japan is facing a humanitarian crisis, and it’s policy makers need to move.

And Japan’s sex industry has an even darker side to it. A different Japanese government survey revealed 15% of Japanese men have watched child pornography, and 10% admit to owning it. The “Lolita” obsession with juvenile porn results in a $700 million a year child prostitution industry in Japan with high school girls leaving school to enter the underground, ‘hush-hush’ side of sold sex. Brothels, “Love Hotels” and “Image Clubs” are prevalent as well. I considered touring Tokyo’s red light district in Shinjuku my final night in Tokyo, but after reading too many stories of white tourists being drugged by members of the Yakuza, I decided to shy away.

Anyways, the motorcycle beckons.

I soon pull back off the road to spend the next two hours hiking a waterfall by the roadway. Long sections of ancient stairs stretch long into the forest. I want to turn back the entire time, but the idea of what could be around the corner drags me begrudgingly to the top. I dream of temples, warriors, or maybe an elevator but there’s nothing there. After several wasted hours and a long hike down I’m back on the bike. I aim north still, now towards Fukushima. Radiation levels have fallen in recent years since the disaster and residents have begun to return. But still, nuclear meltdown sounds inviting.

Some water begins to fall riding through back roads but I pay it little attention. Peter offered me his rain pants for my ride up here but I turned them down. I didn’t have room I said, but the lamenting truth being rain pants are ugly. And a motorcycle is all about the aesthetics.

The rain begins to fall heavier rolling through the countryside. I seek solace at the next ramen house, eager to dry off a little. I’m not that cold, but I can see how this could quickly go down hill. I sit inside for an hour and book a hostel for the night. 120km away-a quick blast of the throttle, and I’m home for a night. The rain hasn’t stopped, and there’s no sign it will. The clouds settle into a depressing formation. Saddle up cowboy, time to ride.

The shivering starts five minutes in. My dad’s 35 year old leather jacket makes up in style what it loses in practicality. It’s soaked through, along with the sole t-shirt underneath. The jacket’s 20 pounds of regret by now, and my jeans are in a similarly poor situation. My hands are so numb they slide off the clutch with an alarmingly vague ease. Rolling into a red light becomes a mechanical operation. Quickly throw it in neutral as the light changes. Stop hard. Feet out, but bowlegged to keep my thighs close to the engine. The femoral arteries on the inside of your legs carry the most blood in your body; I’ll try and barbecue them on the block to warm my body up. I’ll lay my hands on the burning engine headers too, waiting for the feeling to return and pain to become unbearable, then hold them for a couple more seconds. Green light, back on the gas. The shivering returns almost immediately.

The next several hours are punishing. I don’t fear for my life just yet, but that threshold feels ever closer every time the bike starts rolling. Water damage ruins my earbuds, no more nav. I’m flying blind at this point, only 40 miles from a hot shower.

I get to my hostel long past sunset. Weary, I’m welcomed by a mother and her newborn. The mother’s name is Minori. Her gentle, warm hands welcome my battered, shivering body. She’s amazed I rode a motorcycle from Tokyo in this weather. I struggle intensely to take my jacket and boots off. My body is tired and cold. Please help me, I’m so weak.

I stumble through the entrance. Their home is beautifully intricate. It’s large, and serves as a farming co op. They teach yoga and meditation classes, along with workshops on self-sustainability. The woodwork in the dining room borders overpowering. Wood grain is everywhere, leading to high ceilings and large cross beams their kitten scurries across. As I walk out of the shower Minori offers me some of her husbands clothes. “It’s no problem at all. They might not fit too well though!” All of mine are soaked still from the rain, and her simple gratuity becomes a sincere commonality of all the people I’ll meet here. They are eager in their kindness and gentle in their souls. Thank you.

I come down to share dinner with their family. We sit on small cushions on the floor, eating cross-legged off a long wooden Chabudai. Minori and her husband made an unbelievable vegan lasagna that I’ll do my best to finish alone. We talk long into the night. Minori’s large black eyes are kind. She wears glasses and talks eloquently. Her husband is from the Netherlands. He’s tall, awkward and eager to help her as she labors with more food. They work well together, operating in a beautiful tandem. They’ve been together for twelve years, and their synchronicity is obvious.

We sit late watching their newborn play with her small colored blocks. Her fascination with the world reminds me of my own right now. Everything is all so new. The colors are more bold, the sounds more visceral, the taste of the food brighter, more vivid. We’re both eager to learn more tomorrow.

I sleep soundly on the floor, a bean bag as my pillow. Too exhausted to dream I awake early and try and sneak out. A silence has descended into the valley during the night, nuzzling into the corner I’ll once call home. The bike firing up begets distant life from its place of slumber. I leave overpowered by the sense of burgeoning authenticity. It’s a beautiful thing this.

Not pictured: The space heaters my socks were drying on and the kitten batting at them endlessly

I dread the Bandai-Azuma. It’s far and goes deep into the mountains. The rain begins with my early depart- It eerily feels like I’m being followed by it. My jacket is still heavy and wet. My backpack tears at my shoulders and my boots no longer stretch to welcome my foot. I’m committed at this point though. I’ll fill up on my way out of the nearby village and ruefully continue north.

The Bandai-Azuma is impeccable. Smooth, tight, and flows like it was designed by a culture obsessed with drifting. The Initial D theme song plays in my head and I think of sliding S13’s as I roll onto the gas out of tight hairpins. Wet leaves on the ground make grandeur drifting illusions too close to a reality for comfort.

Despite its appeal, I quickly lose interest in the road. All joy has been shut out by how brutally wet and cold I am. I’m shivering so intensely at points I can barely see- A fogging visor makes it even worse. I lose touch with the road, and after realizing I’ve been doing circles grow desperate. Everything is tense. My jaw is locked to my skull, body flexed, shoulders thrown to my head. I’m so cold it doesn’t seem real. This is the most hypothermic I’ve ever been save for a freak weather cell in the Dolomites a year prior. I finally locate a small gift shop. I devour three bowls of Ramen, my hands struggling to grab the ~$6 to pay for it. I sneak behind the counter to steal a couple trash bags to wrap my body with. The bags go underneath my jacket though; a motorcycle is still all about the aesthetics.

Desperately over it, I race back to the freeway and roll hard on the gas. I’ll average 90 miles an hour for over an hour desperate to get back to Tokyo. It’s amidst the second hour of lane splitting, stressed out of my mind and body rigid from the cold I finally remember it. I’m on vacation right now.

A depressingly cold bathroom selfie. Notice the trash bags- A motorcycle is all about the aesthetics.

The next few days are a blur. I made it back to the resort in Tokyo to see Peter. He flies out in the morning, but is miserable from wasting two days away riding a stationary bike at the hotel. I stumble over excitement recounting all that just happened but he’s too busy packing to pay any attention. He’s flying home tomorrow morning, so we end up at a speakeasy near the harbor and celebrate what little we have to celebrate from our time together. I wake up and pick up a different motorcycle- A Yamaha XSR700- and head south for Mt. Fuji. The bike’s light and nimble, and fascinatingly capable through the turns. The only limit on this thing is however close I can get my knee to the ground. I zip through mountain passes the next few days, climbing Mt. Fuji and spending two days on just the Izu peninsula around Mt. Amagi. I tag along with a motorcycle gang ripping down it’s western-side fighting to keep up with aged masters of speed. I spend early mornings and late nights desperately searching for new tarmac. Day in and day out I struggle to comprehend how beautiful this country is, and how limitless the roads seem to be. Late one night I eat my dinner overlooking the small waves lapping against the shore in Suruga bay. It’s past 10 o’clock by now, so all the restaurants are closed. I sit behind a 7/11 eating a corn dog tastefully paired with some ice cream and a Sapporo. The 20km jaunt down to my hostel is sublime. It’s warm and the roads are empty this late. I can’t stop now. I’ll ride for far more hours than I need to this day, and with every corner comes the realms of the new world I’m searching for.

Men fishing in Suruga bay. I’ll wait for them to leave before getting in the nude and jumping

My final ride back to Tokyo is depressing. My brain is on fire from the compounding sensory overload the last several days. I split lanes for the final couple hours on the bike, guided by an older man on a similar XSR900. He lets me ride his bike at a rest stop off the highway; “It’s fast!” I yell through my helmet. He knows, but confirmation is always welcomed in this community. It’s why their underground street racing culture is so prominent, and so visually stimulating. Reflecting back on the journey through the countryside is hard to do while lane splitting at 50 miles an hour, but I find myself doing it nonetheless. The last couple days I’ve been hunting checkpoints down for Peter, not for scouting purposes but because I know with them comes small, obscure mountain passes, or ‘Rindo’ as the locals call them. I have a run in with the authorities one day hopping a fence on one of these passes deep in the mountains. Their English is poor, but as I take my helmet off and start bellowing how I have “important business to attend to” on the other side, they let me through. I barely sneak past the fallen tree that caused the road closure.

Closed roads and perfect timer photos. Best days ever

It’s been a hard couple days of cat and mouse, of chasing enlightenment and running from death. I’ve fallen asleep in parking lots, and when my phone’s died leaving me both lost and stranded I’ve found myself eerily creeping through mountain roads late at night, completely isolated, as far from home as I could be, scared- but not scared enough to slow down. I loved every second. I reveled in it in fact. I loved the hectic runaround, and how a fast little sport-bike facilitates it. Returning back to Tokyo felt criminal. I had so much left to see. I have so many people left to meet.

I wander hung over through the Tsukiji fish market my final morning in Tokyo. It’s a classic western tourist destination and I find myself back amongst people like myself for the first time in a week. The natives are no longer friendly, patient, willing. They’re curt, and pushing us around as they hustle through the market. The woman that helped me order Sashimi in Numazi a couple days ago brought out her translator app and walked me through the menu. We laughed together as the words came out awkward and incomprehensible. Today’s waiter won’t sing with me like the man at the hole in the wall ramen house in Shibuya last night. I felt wrong being a tourist again, looking through the glass at a foreign world from a safe distance. I wanted to apologize to the people I was intruding on. This is not the Japan I know, the people I’ve fallen in love with. I miss my friends in the mountains, the man I shared an Onsen with the other night. I miss Minori. I miss the genuine good-heartedness that seems to be lost along the commotion here.

I sat on a bridge with my new friends, Tanner and Josh of San Francisco and talked of our travels. They leave to the nearby gardens and I have a final moment of recollection. I’m desperate for more, and dreading the flight home. I’ve tasted true, altruistic freedom and it tasted better than anything I’d experienced before. I cry a little as I think of the people I’m about to say goodbye to forever. I vaguely remember the couple I street danced with late last night in Shinjuku after a few too many Sapporo’s. You’re allowed to drink publicly here- a liberty I regretted to learn while puking along the roadside in Asakusa an hour later.

Josh standing where I will soon break down and cry like a kid leaving his mom for summer camp

There are two distinct groups of people in Japan, with very little overlap in between. Almost half of the population lives in cities. Tokyo, with it’s awe-inspiring urban sprawl, and Osaka, with its modern, socialist solutions to continued high density urban problems. The other half live in rural, beautiful, small towns. Some rely solely on farming, raising rice, wasabi roots and soy beans. They live humble, simple lives. I quickly began to intimately admire these people. A couple nights prior I stayed with an old husband and wife, Toshi and Map at their cabin deep in Nagano. Toshi listened intently as I let out everything I had seen that day. I hadn’t spoke all day, and he was eager to practice his English. They were traveling to Sicily in two days. I warned them of crazy drivers and an archaic hospital system. I drank the hot tea he set out for breakfast, put back on the iconic burger t shirt, and went back to searching for enlightenment. I hope you’re well Toshi, I miss you and I hope your trip changed your life like mine did.