Someone lights a hot dog of a joint and passes the homegrown bud around. The giggling starts and lasts all night. Patty uncorks a homemade batch of Irish creme, brews a pot of coffee, and we go nuts with it. Virginia, a flaming-redheaded guitarist who has bicycled through Europe, uncases her guitar and plays. Pierre, a gay French dancer, pirouettes around the room for us, scooping up Pocahontas for a whirl. We drink liters of cheap wine. I recite snatches of poetry.
John and Debbie perform a comedic skit. Suddenly, everyone is banging on pots and pans, singing along with Virginia and Bryan. The night crashes on for a long time, and because we are in a great Portland neighborhood on the southeast side, no one calls the cops.
Bryan sings “Blue Moon” and nearly makes me cry. When the revelry comes to a close, and those of us who haven't gone home already are staring at the ceiling in a hazy bliss, Bryan, who has so very little and could not contribute much to the feast, goes around the room to each person with a giftâa foot massage. I am at once honored and disturbed by his open humility. I fall asleep on the dirty living-room carpet, thinking I belong here. I haven't talked to an Asian person in weeks. Tonight I forget I am Asian.
Three days later it rains and I know it is time to leave. Fall is on the way. Bryan and Patty see me off.
“You know,” Bryan says, “when it's all over, you'll realize that the answer is already within you.”
“It's almost a cliché, isn't it?” I say, although I don't know what the answer is. “When I find it, I still need the rigor of proof.”
They laugh with me. “The road is a wondrous place. Go with an open heart,” says gray-haired Bryan, who has been on the road most of his life.
And they bid me the one true farewell I have come to love: “So long, we'll see you when we see you.”
As I pedal away with a light heart, I think that perhaps, inside, I am really an aging hippie.
I ride up to Olympia, Washington, then tour the eastern side of the Olympic Peninsula. A more magnificent land I never did see. Then I ferry over to Seattle. I stay in the Emerald City for weeks as a guest of Sasha Kaufman, a woman I met a month earlier at a gas station in a place called Trinity. I spend my time pounding the pavement looking for steerage passage on cargo ships. It is a defunct form of travel rumored to still be in practice on a few ships where a few penniless hopefuls are allowed to work off their passage and board, mostly by tending to filthy chores the crew avoids. I hang out at seamen's bars and drop queries at various sailors' and longshoremen's associations. I even go down to the docks and try to talk to the ships'
officers. No dice. At marinas and yacht clubs, I post ads looking for a crew position on any yacht heading across the Pacific. There aren't any. It is too late in the season. I wait and wait for calls without any success. The rain begins to roll into Seattle. At last, with my funds dwindling, I give up and buy a one-way plane ticket to Vietnam with a forty-five-day layover in Japan.
Japan-Dream
Mom used to whisper to me when I was a kid that there was Japanese blood in my veins, a fanciful notion, unproven. She never said it in front of my father because it made him angry. No one wanted to be reminded of the Japanese occupation during World War II, especially Dad, who witnessed the atrocities of the Japanese army.
“Pinch it, like this,” Mom told me, grabbing the ridge of my nose between her thumb and index finger, “and pull. It'll make your nose longer, thinner, and better looking.”
She prided herself on the lightness of our skin. “Don't play in the sun in the middle of the day! You'll be dark like a peasant's kid. And don't forget to pull on your nose three times a day.”
The Vietnamese harbor a grudging hate-admiration for the Japanese. They cannot forget how the Japanese defiled their country, yet they cannot help feeling a sense of pride that an Asian nation ranks among the world's industrial powers. And I have heard my elders say Vietnam dreamed about America, but it pragmatically yearned to be Japan. To Vietnam, Japan didn't embody success, it was success. I wanted to see for myself the third link of this love triangle.
My plane lands in Tokyo's Narita International Airport on a rainy night. Sleep-deprived, I grumble my way through immigration, drag
the boxed bicycle out to the bus loading zone, and reassemble my vehicle at the airport terminal amid swarms of Japanese. I have no idea how to get out of the airport, much less find affordable lodging for the night. Besides a few phrases I've gleaned from a
Learn Japanese
cassette tape, I don't speak Japanese. Streets signs, in kanji, are useless.
The people at the information booth can't help me either. According to one supervisor, foreigners have been seen toting touring bicycles out of baggage claim but no one has tried to ride out directly from the airport. I am about to be the first fool to tryâat 9 p.m. in the rain. I pace the terminal, frustrated and unsure of what to do. Even if there is room on the bus, I doubt they will let me board with a bike. My funds are a little lean. Besides, I figure, if I am to tour Japan, I might as well start now. Except the only road out is choked with cars and buses. Is it legal to ride in the street? Where in the hell is the sidewalk?
I sit on a bench, dumbstruck and lonely. Maybe this is how my sister felt on the streets of San Francisco, poor, hungry, cold. Grasping the tails of an incomprehensible language. Wishing for a place to sleep. Looking at pedestrians, wondering why no one stopped to offer a helping hand.
I am soaked in self-pity. Then it rains and I begin to shiver. Cornered, I do what I always do in absolute desperation: I bite my lip and plunge into the street. Pedaling like a racer, I try to keep up with the traffic, maneuvering between autos traveling on the
wrong
side of the road. I edge into a narrow lane and barely avoid entering the freeway on-ramp. A bus swerves away from me, brakes screeching. I turn my head and its headlights stab my eyes. Blinded, I hit a bump in the road, sideways. My tires skitter across the rain-slicked asphalt. I carom off a retaining wall. Somehow, I don't go down. The bus would have flattened me.
Shaking, I coast into a parking lot and spot an old man on a bicycle. No time to gather my wits. I chase after him, shouting questions in my bad Japanese:
How do I get out of this airport? Where can I find inexpensive lodging? Where's the public rest room?
He looks at me the way people look at dogs foaming at the mouth. He pedals harder to get away. I tail him like a shadow. There is no way the old man is going to get away from me. Biking up the Pacific Coast
has given me muscles, so I feel powerful. I chase him as easily as a cat toys with a mouse. The sight of me swooping down on him must be terrifying because he pumps standing, as though his life depends on it. I should feel a twinge of guilt, but I don't. It is late: he must be going home. And home couldn't be in the airport. I am feeling nasty and have no desire to sleep on an airport bench.
“Gomen nasai!
”âPardon meâI shout, but he ignores me.
After a few blocks, his strength fizzles and he paces himself, realizing that he can't get away from the lunatic screaming incomprehensible Japanese. I tell myself I can ignore him as well. Just shadow him. Sooner or later, he's bound to lead me out of the airport. The rain runs down my face, misting my glasses as I gloat at my brilliance, my prey unwittingly guiding me out of the airport and meandering me through guarded checkpoints and a maze of construction-project detours.
In the second it takes me to swipe water from my glasses, he shifts into hyperdrive and runs a red light. I skid to a stop, the cross traffic separating us. I feel bad, good, guilty, tired-sick. That old guy is one slippery noodle. It is a daring escape, very gutsy and well timed. I explode with laughter, roaring my appreciation to the wet sky. A sharp sensation of being alive suffuses me, tickling, tingling. I'm not miserable anymore. The rain comes down hard, soaking me, and through my foggy glasses I see him glancing back as he swings the corner. I wave farewell. A magnificent night. Everything forgivable.
I wander for half an hour and stumble on an empty lot next to a bamboo groveâthe perfect place to steal some pillow time. I am so relieved to get out of the airport that nothing bothers me. Within four hours of setting foot in Japan, I have already harassed a citizen and trespassed on private property, courting trouble with the law at every turn. I don't care. I could always plead ignorance.
The last time I was here, my family was passing through on our way to America. We changed planes and never left the airport. My mother had always dreamed of visiting Japan. I remember telling her that someday when I was bigger, rich, and famous in America, I would come back to tour Japan. Never in twenty years had I thought I would find myself in Japan camping in an empty lot like a hobo.
I pitch the tent under a large oak out of the downpour and in a
cloud of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. I strip to my underwear, crawl into my sleeping bag, and reward myself with a candy bar. As I close my eyes, a whining, screaming metallic thunder startles me into a cold sweat. I peep outside, a jumbo jet booms overhead. The lot is at the end of the airfield. Oh, gee. I wish I had pocketed a few mini-bottles of scotch on the plane.
At 2 a.m., I wake to bright lights and what feels like a small earthquake or a landing jumbo jet. An emergency runway? I bolt out of the tent and stop dead in my tracks. Bright-eyed monsters coming at me. Naked save for a pair of cotton briefs, I quiver in the flood of headlights from a battalion of tractors. They are coming for me. Gonna run me over. OH-SHIT! My tent! My bike! My passport! My
pants!
They growl forward. Coming. Metal screeching. They grind to a halt. A million incandescent watts pin me where I stand. I am camping on a parking lot for construction vehicles and earth-moving equipment. The drivers look at me. I look at them. They don't say a word. How very Japanese. Maybe they think I am Japanese. I grin, wave hello, then burrow into my tent. They cut the engines and the lights. I go back to sleep.
Morning brings a drizzle as fine as fish bones. In convenience-store parking lots, workers slurp instant noodles from Styrofoam bowls, fogging up their car windows, making small conspiracies of their meager privacy. Japanese are on their way to work, grim faces looking out windshields, truck drivers with white cotton gloves, office dwellers in dark suits. Villages are emptying. Children walk to school, quietly obedient in navy-blue uniforms. The populace ambles dispassionately toward duties, so little said in these early hours. People move in complete silence, their shoes louder than their breathing. Long electric worms hiss into concrete stations, swallow the people, and hiss away.
I ride oceanward, planning to go north along the Pacific Coast. Daybreak in Chiba Province is beautiful with fields of sleeping grass and lakes enshrouded in mists. The days are shortening, the chill hinting a fading fall. Persimmons polka-dot the roadsides like windfallen roses, ravished by drunken clouds of fruit flies. I stop at a wall with a laden
tree branch nodding over the top. Juicy persimmons hang no more than two steps and a leap away. I am rationalizing minor theft when an old Japanese woman comes out the gate. Blushing, I bow. She smiles and asks a question in Japanese, gesturing at the tree. Beautiful, I reply, taking money out of my wallet. May I buy some? She shakes her head at the cash, disappears inside, then comes back with a woven basket of four ripe lovelies. Present, present, she says in English. She watches me eat. I bite off the point, then suck the flesh out, savoring each tender lip. Nectar, food of angels, this is how sugar should taste. Orange-red mush covers my face. She tells me I should go south to a more moderate climate. I take this as a sign and turn around toward Tokyo.
Into the megalopolis, I merge myself with the great masses of Japanese. It takes me fourteen hours to go seventy miles. I stagger in and out of crushes of people, hemmed in on every side by cars, trucks, bicyclists, and pedestrians. Up and down ramps, under bridges and over freeways, I carry my loaded bike. I accept the vague state of being constantly lost. The streets make no sense, laid in the feudal days when roads were designed to confuse invading armies. They go in spirals, circles, radiate from some center, come together in acute wedges, making comedies or marvels of buildings.
I lodge for a week at a hostel and meander all over the city, gasping at the dark undercarriage of Tokyo, its industry, its strata of life, its one-mindedness, its fascination with America. A hacking cough develops in my lungs. When I blow my nose, snot comes out black. My eyes are bloodshot from the air pollution. My throat is scratchy from car fumes. I wash it with can after can of Coca-Cola. Eventually, I get on my bike and swear never to return, in any case not with mere pocket change.
Too cheap to buy a map, I fail to escape Tokyo in a day. As the afternoon fades, I take refuge on the bank of a river that divides Tokyo and Yokohama. Sitting on a boulder next to the swamp of river reeds, I eat an early supper of rice balls wrapped in seaweed. Steamy runoffs from manufacturing plants crack the river white. The sun sets in apocalyptic colors as though the air itself is burning, turning the smog gold, the clouds molten, dangerous. Smokestacks poison the sky. The skyline of bridges and skyscrapers folds behind even more skylines of the same. Everything is smeared in this bizarre glow, even my hands. I think I can
feel it on my face. Magnificent colors, a fine death, glorious, defiant. A despairing beauty. A consummation. Abruptly, the taste of rice and nori is precious on my tongue. In my nostrils, a heaviness of diesel exhaust.
The moment might have fragmented me if it weren't for Michikosan and Tanaka-san. Something needy in my face must have stopped them short as they emerged from the grass. Smiling kindly, they lead me back to their home of plywood and appliance boxes wired together in the tall reeds. We sit on homemade stools, drinking green tea and exchanging phrases in two languages. Boys play baseball in the field beyond. Shouts in bright lights. Above us night is slowly hardening.
In the morning, when I leave them, I wish I don't have to. I lower my head and pedal to Mount Fuji. The tourists have followed summer down the mountains. I want to talk but there is no one. I wander the lakeshores, watching the snow line creeping down the volcano. Silence distills the days into one long continuous moment. I drift onward. I talk to myself, hum favorite tunes in my head for hours on end. Solo touring provides too much time for contemplation, self-doubt. These are times I would trade two mountain ranges for one new friend. In America, you can make friends with a good jokeâeven one borrowed from a book. Stand on a street corner with a map, wearing a puzzled look, and someone is bound to offer help, maybe an invitation for coffee. Smile and they'll let you camp in their backyard. Charm them and you'll eat at their table and sleep on their couch with the good comforter.
Japanese rarely invite strangers home. Campgrounds in Japan are few and expensive. I bed down wherever I find myself at dusk: school grounds, golf courses, temples, dikes, construction lots, ruins of castles. Once I slept in a pet cemetery. But I will always love Japan for its endless fascination with miniaturizing nature, its countless sculptured gardens.
At the Seiko Museum, a late busload of Japanese tourists strolls through the garden with a tour guide who is pointing out the leaves' changing colors. They catch me cooking spaghetti on the opposite side of a gurgling brook, my tent staked beside an overgrown bonsai, the bike propped against a carefully assembled mound of rocks. The
guide stutters, bewildered at this new exhibition. I wave hello, then bow. They bow. I bow. They bow. I smile, they smile. I bring up my hands, miming them taking photographs. Ahhhh, they agree among themselves, nodding. Cameras come up, flashes going off. Ever the gracious host, I pose for them, stirring the pot, staking the tent, standing with the bike.
They smile and bow their thanks as the guide ushers them toward the main building. I flourish a theatrical obeisance. All quiet again, I eat my spaghetti and sip my green tea, waiting for a security guard to frog-march me out by the cuff of my neck. No one comes. I go to bed, chuckling to myself.
I meander from Narita to the outskirts of Kyoto and back. On my return leg, I am in a hurry to catch a flight. A Japanese friend had urged me to take the train. Having studied abroad at an American university, he was sharp on the differences between American and Japanese cultures. “Take the train,” he insisted. “It's safer and the best way to get back to Narita in time for your plane. They probably don't allow bikes on the long-distance trains, but don't worry. Just take your bike on anyway. Japanese people are very polite. They won't say anything.”