INSTRUCTIONS AND INFORMATION

1.  Episodes 1-19 are posted on the My Story page which is full.

2.  As of today, Episodes 20-27 are posted on this page listed on the website as the 

My Story20+ page.

3. Future Episodes will be posted in order after Episode 27.

Please contact me at danbell1201@gmail.com with issues or questions.

Enjoy.

Episode 20    The Enormity of the Unknown

On this trip, I intended to prove my mettle to myself. To succeed, I needed four elements: good health, cheap eats, cheap transportation, and cheap accommodations. I do not know how I learned about international youth hostels. Perhaps someone suggested I check it out, or perhaps I saw it mentioned in a magazine. Regardless, this reliable organization  providing a clean bed in a safe place for $1 or $2 per night satisfied the fourth essential element of my trip. 

The hostels differed in size and age. Most were dormitory style, but a few had single rooms. Some sold food and non-alcoholic drinks. All limited the number of nights you could stay and, for the common good, forbid alcohol, drugs, and excessive noise. Almost all offered these necessary amenities: showers, drinking water, and a common room for chatting with other travelers who represented all the continents. Most were men and women under 30 who spoke some English as their traveling language and carried backpacks. For these travelers, the hostels furnished a place to sleep, and to converse with others like the hotels in the past provided along train or coach lines and in seaports.

We shared a common interest in trading stories about where we had been and gaining information about where we were going.  In Tokyo, for example, I wanted to know about safety in Saigon, restaurants in Bangkok, transportation in India, and hostels everywhere on my route. As an American, I did my best to answer similar questions from travelers headed to the States.  I wrote the new information carefully in my Notebook. We also discussed world news and  topics of mutual interest. I gladly joined these international exchanges full of positive energy with young people leading lives full of the thrills and challenges of backpack travel. They increased my tolerance and respect for those raised with different values. 

Primarily we travelled, going our own ways in search of new experiences in new places. We said goodbye to each other easily. Chance spawned our relationships, and we parted without regret and without exchanging contact information. Remember that we had no internet, texts, or phones; television rarely; and often no available English-language newspaper.

My first morning in Japan, the hostel manager answered the phone as I walked into his office to get a recommendation for a place to eat breakfast.

“Moshi. Moshi.”

What a great start to the day! The first thing in the morning, I learned that the woman used the proper words to answer the phone.

I sat at a table in the restaurant three doors down from the hostel.  I saw Japanese men at their tables and Japanese art on the walls. I heard the server and the cook speaking Japanese and smelled Japanese cooking. The server gave me a short Japanese bow as he handed me a menu entirely in Japanese. Unless I spoke it, no English word existed in this establishment. 

I recall that I had no good option. I had not eaten since the sushi. I believed that searching for food elsewhere would result in greater hunger. I was like a ship in the open ocean without a compass. I knew that I must not abandon my table.

I would have memorialized the moment by writing something like this in my Notebook:

How did I know what dish would suffice for breakfast? I didn’t. I knew I needed to solve this problem because it likely would recur, especially in the cheap eats cafes that fit my budget. I also realized that the time I spent onboard the Wilson trying to learn Japanese did not pay off here. 

So, I must build a solution.  First, from my phrasebook, I found the word for “breakfast” –“CHOH-sho-koo’ ah-SAH goh-hahn”. Second, for backup, I located the phrase meaning “Í don’t understand Japanese.” – “nee-HOHN-goh wah” Third, I approached the server holding the menu and phrase book. Fourth, pronouncing the Japanese for “breakfast” as best I could and lilting the last syllable to present a question, I ran my finger down the menu items. He did not understand. Fifth, I showed him the word written In Japanese from my phrasebook. He smiled and pointed at the top four items. Fifth, I placed my index finger on my sometimes-lucky 3. 

Having placed my order, I could hardly wait. Within minutes, I had a aromatic, good size bowl of rice topped with a raw egg and soy sauce. I did not hesitate and learned that  severe hunger makes it easier to learn how to eat rice with chopsticks. The Japanese favored Tamago Kake Gohan (tah-mah-gon-kah-keh-goh-han), also known as TKG, as a breakfast dish and as a snack food because of its high nutritional value. It became my go-to breakfast eliminating the future need to request a menu. After copying the name of the dish for reference and practice, I slipped my Notebook into its designated space deep in a zippered front pocket of my backpack and exchanged sayonaras with the server.

On the way back to the hostel, a man about my age confronted me asking if I spoke English. I confess that I rudely dismissed him because this was the third or fourth time that I had been similarly approached, I mentioned it to the hostel manager. He explained that the government encouraged students to practice their English on tourists to prepare for the 1964 Summer Olympics in Tokyo in the fall. I had no idea that Tokyo would be hosting the Olympics, However, I found the government’s plan to be mutually beneficial.  On most days, the students became good companions. I helped them with their English by discussing the wants of tourists, and they taught me plenty about Japan and Tokyo. 

We never mentioned WWII. Bombs had seriously damaged Tokyo, especially the downtown and surrounding neighborhoods. The area near the hostel, comprised of small businesses and residences, looked unscathed. It would blend easily into an Asian community in San Francisco or LA. 

As our small group of shipmates parted yesterday, we agreed to meet late this afternoon at the train station to explore Tokyo’s nightlife. I decided to go early to check out the rebuilding of  downtown and, if I was lucky, meet up with Midori if she arrived early. 

Episodes 1-19, and the Preface are on the My Story page. 

Episodes 20 and 21 are below Episodes 22 and 23 on this page.

Japan seemed like the logical first step for an around-the-world trip starting San Francisco primarily thanks to American President Lines’ direct connection at a good price. Of course, there was WWII in the Pacific, but  I was born in 1942 and have no direct memory of it. My father could not serve because he ruined his back while working on Great Lakes freighters as a young man. As far as I know, no other family member saw action. I don’t recall any conversations with vets growing up. My personal knowledge of the War consists of my mother’s stories about their Victory Garden and the feel of  the family ration card. Therefore, I had no reason to feel hostile toward the Japanese just as I felt no hostility toward the British for the Revolutionary War.

I have always enjoyed reading about history including WWII. Pearl Harbor. Iwo Jima. Midway, Guadalcanal. The Bataan Death March. The Relocation Camps for Japanese in the United States.  Hiroshima. Nagasaki. General MacArthur and the American Occupation which lasted until 1952. I learned about the fierce fighting between Japan and the United States and its Allies prior to the 1945 Surrender.

This information  raised two questions in my mind because each country inflicted horrific injuries upon the other: Are the Japanese openly hostile to Americans? Had Japan, and particularly Tokyo, repaired the damage incurred by the War? Other than reading some travel brochures while enroute, I knew very little else about Japan in 1964.

I realized that this adventure differed from my trip to San Francisco. Going to SF di not unsettle me. I knew the language and the food, and I traveled with a good friend. For me that adventure resembled rolling dice. If I had no luck, I knew I could call home and ask for bus money back to Colorado.  I felt way different about going to Japan. I was going to my first foreign country. I was a blank slate, an empty tape, awaiting information. I did not know the language or the food, and I knew my shipmates and I would go off on different paths.

I recall my that these concerns fermented in the pit of my stomach during the two weeks on The Wilson. Although I stayed optimistic throughout, I envisioned the possibility that that this trip might not work because it was only my fragile dream subject to demolition by a variety of  external forces. Truthfully, each day on board consisted of one-part joyous excitement and one-part fear of failure. But I was only 22.

As I left the hostel and headed downtown to meet my shipmates, I felt good because I had found my way to the hostel and to get breakfast giving me enough confidence to continue my adventure. My concerns had been lessened, in large part, because the Japanese had helped me overcome my ignorance about their country.Sufficiently encouraged, I decided to answer my question about physical damage to Tokyo by visiting the downtown. I love to walk, but my map of this city of eight million made it clear that I should not attempt to walk from the hostel to the main station.  Tokyo’s population far exceeded that of San Francisco and Denver, the only two large cities that I knew. I used the method of exploring without getting lost that I perfected in San Francisco.  I made the station the hub and I walked out and back on  streets leading from the station, treating them as spokes that did not end. After three or four blocks, I turned around.

I noticed that the number of people headed toward the station had intensified without looking in the stores. Inside the station, rush hour chaos. I grabbed a seat outside the river of people and watched them as they pushed  through the entrance to the trains. It was amazing. They bunched up at train doors, leaning on the people ahead of them. Sometimes,  uniformed men behind them assisted by boosting them into  train cars and closing the door on the tail end of the last passenger to board.

Rush hour in San Francisco was nothing like this.

Midori magically stepped out of the flow through the station with a bow to tell me so sorry that she had another commitment and could not join us tonight, but could I meet her at the Emperor’s Outer Garden next week? Naturally, I said yes and with a bow she disappeared into the flow.

After my walk, I believed that that the Japanese had rebuilt the physical damage and are leading their lives in the direction of the future, just like the people of San Francisco did after the earthquake and fire.  I believed that I would be alright in Japan, that my adventure lives on with a throbbing heart and expanded lungs. That called for a celebration. 

We had learned that the youth of Tokyo favored the Shinjuku District rather the more famous areas such as the upscale Ginza District. I understood why immediately. The neon light forests on the streets blew me way. All shapes. All colors. A few English words scattered among the Japanese. The bigger, the brighter, the bolder, the better. It reminded me of Times Square on New Year’s Eve, but more innovative.  And this was not a quiet forest. Loud music, much of it western rather than eastern, roared out of every establishment.  Bars and restaurants of all sizes, galleries, and small shops filled the streets. Japanese talked loud enough be heard over the loud music. 

There were five of us including Stefan, the drug couple, and a woman I did not know. We pushed our way into a random bar and ordered beers as if we were in the USA. I had my first Sapporo beer. It did not take long for our loud English to attract several young Japanese men and women. They became our guides for the rest of the evening. We had a universal good time clubbing thanks to their scattered English, some sign language, and the mutual enthusiasm of youth. To the amusement of others at the pachinko machines, I futilely played one game.  

No destruction nor hostility. On the surface, it was as if the War never happened. Instinctively, I vowed never to probe deeper. 

  Episodes 1-19, and the Preface are on the My Story page. 

Episodes 20 and 21 are below Episodes 22 and 23 on this page.

I had the best view. Kazuko gave me the window seat on the bus from Tokyo to the fifth station on Mt. Fuji-san where we would begin our climb. The Japanese added “san” to express respect. The mountain dominated the horizon but lacked the iconic snow cap present on so many photographs and paintings.  The Japanese government only allowed climbers in July and August which fit my schedule perfectly. 

Kazuko, a graduate student, introduced himself about two weeks ago while I sat on my favorite bench in Shinjuku Gyoen National Park catching up on my notebook. He had a job as a guide and translator at the upcoming Olympics, and he wanted to practice his English and to learn about the wants and interests of American tourists. We alternated roles during our question-and-answer sessions which often attracted other students as listeners. I took advantage of being surrounded  by a wide age-range of Japanese in student attire of black pants and white shirts and asked  how many hitchhiked. I got blank stares and negative murmurs.  Kazuko explained that the upraised thumb offended many Japanese and that people very rarely hitchhiked except in an emergency. I filed that information as important.

He asked me what I wanted to do while I was in Tokyo. My answer included climbing Mt. Fuji.

He asked if he could be my guide and smiled at my reply.  “Hai. ee-KEE-mah-shoh.” ( “Yes. Let’s go.”) While I gave up on plans to master Japanese, I did try to learn some of the language such as the numerals, basic greetings, and certain phrases that I enjoyed saying because they flowed off my tongue such as “Let’s go” and “I don’t understand” (wah-KAH-ree-mah-sehn). The Japanese always politely responded to my pitiful attempts at their language.

My turn, so I asked him about Shinto, which I had learned was the indigenous religion of Japan,  and most popular. Believers consider Mt. Fuji as the kami, or  shrine, of Konohanasakuya-hime , the goddess of Fuji-san and cherry blossom princess. He said that he believed in the Shinto religion and that our hike to the summit would be his pilgrimage. 

In turn, Kazuko  asked what he could expect from American Olympic visitors. I said that most will be very excited to be here and be very friendly. However, you will probably meet a few ugly Americans who will be loud, rude, pushy, and complain about the prices. They will expect you to know everything and to do everything for them immediately. They may make remarks about World War II that could cause you discomfort.

We set a date for the hike. He advised me to bring a sweater and a canteen for water. (Put plastic water bottle on the same list of the non-existent as the internet, the Iphone, etc.)

After the 60-mile ride, I left the bus in the large parking lot at Level 5 with a canteen on my belt and sweater in my pack. The estimated time for the 3.5-mile hike to the summit of Fuji-san, a 12,388 feet high dormant volcano and the highest mountain in Japan, is five hours. I was not concerned because of my experience hiking in the Colorado Rockies. 

I truly believed that the power of the spirits put me on the side of Mt. Fuji. More than sushi or saki, the photos and artwork depicting this amazing mountain had symbolized Japan for me for years. Now, thanks to what may have been a chance meeting with Kazuko, I now stood halfway up her side, wondering whether I would see bubbling red lava if I peered into her cone. 

We planned to stop as necessary at the rest centers at remaining levels, spend the night at one of the rustic motels, rise early to catch the sunrise, and head back down to catch the bus to Tokyo. I told Kazuko that I respected his pilgrimage and that I would follow his lead. We hit the trail made of small black fragments from the lava. Initially, the trail was about as wide as one of those dirt roads you see shooting off the highway to an unseen location in one of the many open areas in the States. I knew that Kazuko was taking the pilgrimage seriously when he told me not to walk in the center of the trail because that belonged to the spirits. 

As we passed the sixth station the trail markers decreased and the number of large stones in the trail increased. After the seventh station, the trail deteriorated into a rough path around and over big, odd-shaped, black rocks. I did not mind the slow-going because the decrease in oxygen at higher altitude made breathing more difficult.  We arrived at the cluster of buildings for sleeping and the Shinto shrine at the tenth station about an hour before sunset, and I was very happy to leave my shoes at the front door of our accommodations. I had a large, simple, delicious, and inexpensive rice dish, laid my sleeping bag on the straw mat, and said good night to Kazuko.

Early the next morning, the speaker urged us to get up if we wanted to see the sunrise. I slipped my sweater on to block the chill. We got a couple of cups of tea and went out to see nature’s grand production. The eastern horizon appeared to be lower than us creating the impression that we were looking down on the sun. That fireball climbed out from behind the horizon and spread over our surroundings mile-by-mile for miles and miles. Spiritually, nature absorbed me at this place and at this time. Humbled, yet exuberant and joyous, I became part of nature. It was time to give thanks.  And I did.

We climbed on the bus for the 60-mile trip to Tokyo. I thought about how I was going to get to Kyoto and further north. Hitchhiking seemed to be out, trains were surprisingly expensive, and my dwindling supply of money ticked like an alarm clock. I thought about renting a motorcycle.

Shortly before we arrived, Kazuko told me that he would not be visiting me again because official training for his job started in a few days. After we left the bus, we exchanged thankyous. He wished me safe travels, and I wished him good luck with the Americans. He shook my extended hand, and I returned his deep bow. 

  Episodes 1-19, and the Preface are on the My Story page. 

Episodes 20 and 21 are below Episodes 22 and 23 on this page

Upon arriving at the hostel, I found a message from Midori setting a date to attend a Noh performance.  Delighted, I had a beer with a group of Brits who had just flown in from New Delhi after a few days in India. I traded details about climbing Mt. Fuji for their impression of India – hot, crowded, but great food.

What did this invitation from Midori mean? I did not know. Dare I call it a date? I had never been comfortable with women. Why, I did not know. Perhaps it came from our family dynamics. I envied smooth-talking men who could immediately convey the openness of all possibilities to women. I do love women, but I approached cautiously waiting for the woman to give me a sign. I ‘ll label it as overthinking. 

With Midori, I had three other issues piled on top of my overthinking problem – the language difference, Midori’s personality, and tradition. 

From the ship, I knew that she had a quiet personality. She spent a year studying at one of the Seven Sisters colleges in the States, which I thought indicated certain characteristics: she appeared intelligent, composed, and confident. I did not expect her to display the carefree attitude of the young women partying in Shinjuku.

Finally, and most importantly, at its core Japan appeared to me to be a traditional society that has incorporated some new ideas while retaining important symbols of its vibrant history such as the bow, tea, poetry and other art, the worship at the shrine, and love of flowers and nature as fixtures in modern, everyday life .  I am certain that I have not seen the complex side of modern Japan. But I do believe that these historic fixtures bind the majority to the ongoing massive rebuilding effort. 

I desperately needed a pamphlet entitled something like “How to Court Modern Young Japanese Women in English in 1964.”

How should I  describe my view of our relationship with Midori? I would have discussed my quandary with a good friend or big brother, but I was flying solo for better or for worse. I was strongly attracted to her. If she  felt the same, I decided that I would put my quest on hold, stay in Japan, and teach English. I could have said something in my ultra-cautious way like “I enjoy being with you” or “I hope we can see each other again”. She would understand the words, but what about the underlying message?  I had no clue how she would signal agreement. To date Midori and I had not intentionally touched each other. 

With those thoughts, I showered, put on my best blue jeans and shirt, made sure that I had enough yen, and went to meet Midori at the theater. I think she bought the tickets because I had shown her my “to do in Japan” list which included attending a Noh theater. It could be said that her purchase of the tickets signaled an interest in a relationship. However, I was not convinced because they were not expensive and, on several occasions, a Japanese had bought me a tea or a meal simply because I was a visitor. 

I generally liked the theater. I had a few bit parts in plays presented by the University of Colorado Department of Theatre and Dance. A photo of actors performing in a Noh theatre inspired me to learn more about Noh which was performed in a small theatre with a group of musicians near the stage, like an orchestra. Generally, the performance consisted of three of the five types of short Noh plays typically concluding with the demon play featuring strange beasts, supernatural beings, and the devil in terrific costumes. Without understanding Japanese, I had only a short vague summary of the plot, but the quality of the acting and the accompanying music made it worthwhile.

After the show, Midori surprised me by ordering a beer at the nearby bar popular with theater goers. We discussed the play using a teacher-student style. She would ask what I liked about the show, and I would respond by trying to describe something with a bevy of English words instead of the required Japanese. She would reduce my answer to a Japanese word or phrase and ask me to repeat it.

She’d  cover her mouth, as Japanese women do, as she laughed at my responses. I kept trying and she continued to laugh until she was satisfied with my pronunciation. Then she would ask another question, and we would repeat the process. We quickly became actors in our own play encouraged by the laughter of those at the neighboring table. I put on a feigned pained express like a Noh actor to more laughter from our small audience. Encouraged. I searched for a clue in the eyes. She quickly chided me for my mistake. I apologized, having forgotten that the Japanese avoided eye contact. I saw acceptance in her smile.

I still unconsciously avoid looking people in the eyes. I had to retrain myself when I became a trial lawyer because I needed to make eye contact with each juror.

We took the train to the stop closest to the large hotel where her father was general manager. I forgot the hotel’s name, but recall it began with “O”. She never talked about her family, but I assumed that they lived in the hotel. 

She appeared to stumble. I instinctively reached out my left hand. She caught it and did not let go until we reached the building’s side entrance which she used. We stared at each other. She said something about a wonderful evening. I am thinking should I ask her if I can kiss her goodnight, or do I just do it, or will either action cause her to turn away and burst my bubble of happiness?

I need not have worried about her response.

Within seconds her father exploded out of the door yelling in the harsh Japanese the samurais use in films. Like a terrified kitten, Midori vanished through the doorway without a noise or backwards look . I do not recall his words, but he got up in my face and loudly made it very clear that his daughter saw only Japanese men and that there would be consequences if he saw us together again.

I was stunned and pained by the suddenness and finality. Once again, I felt like an actor in a Goh play. I stood by the door for not long on the one-in-a-trillion chance she would appear before heading back to the station, my tail between my legs and probably swearing a bit.

I never saw or heard from Midori again. 

Lying on my hostel futon the next morning, I felt like someone had run away with my passport and kicked me in the nuts on the way by. Her father’s voice screaming “only Japanese men” played repeatedly in my head. I had never had anyone scream at me like that. I just stood still and took it. I said nothing. I felt as if I surrendered like a coward. I didn’t need a notebook to keep this memory intact until my death erased it. And that morning I thought of nothing else.

Initially, what I wanted was revenge. However, what I needed but did not have  was advice from a father, big brother or good friend.  I  laid there reviewing the cold hard facts that crumbled the foundation for revenge. I did not know if Midori cared a cherry blossom whether she ever saw me again. She infatuated me. And either she may have liked me or she was only being hospitable.  Her father discriminated against me. His declaration may have deep cultural roots, or they may be particular to his generation, but I had no power to change his mind. I imagined my father saying something similar if one of my sisters came home with a Japanese man. 

I concluded that I had done nothing wrong, and that I would not pursue this relationship. I was not in Japan to have a relationship or to teach English. I now viewed this event as a test which momentarily distracted me from my quest. What did I learn? That the ancient Japanese custom of politeness has its limits. That Japanese fathers protect their daughters. That I should not expect my trip to remain free of discomforting surprises. 

Mid-day, I ended this matter with an entry in my notebook which contained the ongoing story of my quest. Influenced by the last night’s Noh presentation, I tersely outlined a play in three brief acts. 

Act One. Innocence,I was a somewhat shy and reclusive young man aboard a ship cutting through a vast ocean to a place I had never been. A young Japanese woman, quiet and attractive, appeared on the deck. Infatuated, I pursued her with my eyes. Beyond that, I did not know what to do. Our paths onboard crossed. Names were exchanged. Conversations grew more complex. When we disembarked, we went different ways, but she had my hostel’s name.

Act Two: Hope. She contacted me and we occasionally met innocently for tea and conversation.  Upon her request, I shared my “To Do in Japan” list of goals. She surprised me with tickets to one of my choices, a Noh play. My infatuation blossomed into a dream of a growing relationship that I recognized infringed on my quest to travel around the world and could lead to a difficult choice. 

Act Three: Demolition. The infatuation came within a kiss of blooming before her father, wearing a hideous mask,  snapped it from its stem and trampled it into oblivion, bringing the curtain down on my play about this young man’s who learned one of life’s preeminent lessons: Accept the loss, be your own boss and move on with your life.

I memorialized this event by creating my own travel ditty that I continue to hum on dark occasions during the next year: 

“Man Without Country,

Man Without Home,

Ever to Wander,

Ever to Roam.” 

I tossed my stillborn plans to teach English in the trash on my way to the American Express Office to book the next American President Line’s ship to Hong Kong and a one-way flight from Hong Kong to Saigon. I left myself time to visit the Kyoto region and to prepare to leave.

I tucked the tickets in my money belt and thanked the friendly Amex woman for the five letters she slid across the counter which were the most mail I had received at one time. I had two from my mother, one from my friend John, one from N, my on-and-off girlfriend since high school, and one from Al, my shipmate who I would be visiting in Vietnam. 

I found an empty table at a nearby coffee shop. I always scanned my mother’s letters first to be sure that nothing catastrophic had occurred. As usual, she asked how I was doing, updated me on my sisters’ lives, gave me a health report for herself and my father, and provided a local weather report that always made me smile. She added her concern about my visit to Vietnam because of the recent news reports she heard. Her second letter pleaded with me not to go to Southeast Asia and included newspaper clippings about political assassinations and American troop increases. However, this news did not concern me because I long ago had learned to ignore her super-cautious approach to the welfare of her first-born child. 

I was glad to hear from John, my roommate in San Francisco. You may recall that he decided against traveling by ship. Instead, he purchased for a fixed price an around-the-world airline ticket with no limit on stops. He wrote that he would soon leave for Japan, skip Southeast Asia, and go to India to visit his cousin who was studying in Almedabad on a Fulbright Scholarship.  I planned to write him as soon as possible to tell him that Japan would not work, but that he should give me his dates for India and that I would plan to meet him. I was already excited to see him.

Al’s short letter asked me to confirm my arrival time In Saigon and to tell him how long I would stay. He said he would reserve a hotel room for me. He also said his friend Bert was stationed in Pleiku and wondered if I would want to visit him. I had never heard of Pleiku, but why not?

I always re-read N’s letters more often than the others not for the news it brought, but because of the many unwritten memories it evoked. She was in her senior year at the University of Colorado, exploring her possibilities after graduation. She provided general news and gossipy news about common acquaintances. Even neutral letters she signed “Love N”. I vowed to respond to John and Al when I returned to the hostel and to mom and N when I felt like it. These letters completed the transformation of my day from the black clouds of revenge to the sunshine of future adventures. 

My “To-Do” list included a ride on Japan’s brand-new sleek, 100 mph bullet train built for the Olympics,  and I thought about taking a trip today. I went to the station with my interest waning, and when I saw the bullet train’s fare, I decided I would rather have a sushi plate and an Asahi beer and plan the next two weeks. Besides, I had already felt the thrill of a 100+mph ride in a semi while hitchhiking across the Nevada desert. 

The why and how of the purchase of a used 250 Honda motorcycle remains sketchy in my memory. I was certainly going to Kyoto, and I wanted to see rural Japan. According to local information, the Japanese disfavored hitchhiking, and I did not want to spend hours standing on the side of the road trying to discredit those reports. I ruled out trains and buses because I wanted to experience  small communities and to meet local people. In my mind, those considerations made a motorcycle my choice.

This decision raised an internal yellow flag reminding me that I must exercise some caution regarding finances. I carried about $3,000 In American Express Travelers Checks and a small amount of cash when I came aboard the Wilson. I budgeted $5 a day following the travel guides.  This included nominal amounts for a room, meals, and transportation, but did not include money for doing the things I wanted to do in Japan, like climbing Mt. Fuji, having beers with friends, or visiting Kyoto. And I couldn’t budget this money solely for my time in Japan because I would obviously need it for the rest of my quest.

Now, knowing that I could trade $1 for 369Yen, I could approximately budget for Japan. But I did not know the exchange rates for currencies in Vietnam, India, and the European countries, for example,  nor the cost of anything in the other places I intended to visit. The motorcycle purchase activated my internal financial warning system that I used in college and in San Francisco which reminded me to question the need for each purchase before I paid for it. Honestly, it always worked better in theory than in practice.

So, I bought the bike, assuming I would sell it before I left Japan.

I can’t clearly remember where I got the cycle. I have the vaguest of memories of a used cycle shop on a Tokyo side street. How fickle is my memory? I have zero memory of how much I paid, the age of the cycle, or the transaction. But I do clearly remember, during the same time period, I saw a new, small Honda convertible sports car in a Honda dealership showroom. I asked the salesman, who was not much older than me, if the car would be available in America. Maybe I looked disappointed when he said no because he offered to take me for a ride. He was a smart salesman. Top down with a Caucasian in the passenger seat, for maximum exposure for Honda’s new model, he drove down and back along Ginza’s main shopping street. I appreciated his clever use of his ulterior motive. 

I also do not recall exactly how I met up about this time with Stefan, my shipmate and Hawaii biking buddy.  I do know that he quickly agreed when I asked if he wanted to come along. Nor do I recall whether or not I had an International Driving Permit goes. Perhaps one of my parents convinced me to go to an  AAA in Denver to get the Permit, just in case. I can’t believe that I would be so stupid as to knowingly operate a vehicle in a foreign country without a Permit. However, I admit that maybe I never thought about it and no one, including Stefan, ever asked about it, and that out trip amounted to a “no harm, no foul” occasion. At 22, that was possible.

We met the day before departure to figure out the best way to fit two 160-pound men and their packs on the bike. As I recall a luggage rack about one foot long protruded from the back of the seat. We shrunk out packs until they carried the minimum. I sat as far forward as possible on the seat. Stefan wedged his pack against my back and strapped my backpack on the luggage rack against his back. This tight arrangement caused us to make several stops to stretch and to regain full circulation in our legs. I wish I had a photo of us on the bike. We anticipated a three-day trip to Kyoto, two or three days in the rural Japan, and the trip back to Tokyo before Stefan’s classes began and my ship left for Hong Kong.

I totally depend on my memory to describe in this book what happened during my quest. I lack the scientific knowledge necessary to explain the mystery about why I remember certain events from 60 years ago, but not others. I cannot solve the mystery, but I did create a simplistic, unscientific resolution to the mystery which allows me to accept how the brain stores memories.

The brain  deposits new information that it considers memorable in one storage area and that which, over time,  it considers uneventful in another brain storage area. I have no idea what criteria it uses. So, I can share what my brain reveals as memorable without worrying about what my brain labeled as uneventful. 

After searching back 60 years, I have a distinct memory of having the bike in Tokyo and of two incidents on the trip that specifically involved the bike. And I distinctly recall a few other events based on our locations. I will share these memorable moments  with you. But I consider  the rest of our trip to Kyoto as uneventful, like a perfect non-stop flight from Chicago.

Sometimes the brain stamps curious events as memorable. For example, on the way to Kyoto, I stopped at a red light. The driver repeated something in Japanese that neither of us understood. The them motioned us with a sign he created with his left hand.  He held his open palm facing, his fingers touching each other and pointed upwards, and his thumb at a ninety-degree angle to his fingers. He repeatedly brought his fingers down and his thumb until they touched.  I quickly realized that he was keeping time with the sound of my blinking turn signal. At that time, a cycle rider had to turn off the signal manually. I shut it off. We exchanged shallow bow as the light changed.

So why has my memory held this event for 60 years? I think it was because of its uniqueness to me. The scattering of memories like this one makes this recounting of a quest possible. 

Stefan and I spent our first day in awe of Kyoto’s age and beautiful preservation. I had read that some U.S. officials considered it a prime atomic bomb target until Secretary of State Harry Simpson convinced President Truman to remove it from the list because of its cultural importance. Kyoto lived a charmed life throughout WWII as U.S. bombers hit every other major Japanese city. As a result, Kyoto claims to have 10,000 shrines and 11 UNESCO sites. We saw Buddhist temples, traditional wooden houses, and beautiful gardens and parks. Founded in 794, it surely ranks high among the world’s best-preserved cities. I greatly respected the way that the Japanese care for the Buddist temples and Shinto shrines and believe this illustrates the importance of these religions in their lives.

We rode through Gion, Kyoto’s famed Geisha District, without seeing a Geisha wearing a kimono. which probably is not unusual. Many think that “Geisha” is another name for a Japanese prostitute or sex worker which is totally in accurate. I learned that, since the 1600’s, women have chosen the occupation of Geisha which requires proficiency in the classical arts including singing, dancing, and playing the samisen, an instrument similar to the lute.  They work as entertainers at tea houses, luxurious restaurants, and special events. 

We hung out in the hostel until clouds broke after a morning rain. I wiped the bike down while Stefan brought the packs out. This was before cycles had an electric start. I kick started it, throttled a couple of times to clear out any moisture, and settled onto my part of the seat. Stefan strapped down the rear pack, stuffed his small pack against my back, and mounted up. I headed up the main street which lead to the distant hills, staying away from the two iron tram tracks that spilt the road into thirds.

I don’t remember why it happened. I may have gotten lost in thought. I may have been distracted by an interesting building. Or I may have reacted to another vehicle. For whatever reason, I drifted between the tracks. I knew better. I was an experienced cyclist. I rode a motorcycle during my last year at the University and had ridden a bicycle since I was very young. I knew that a wet rubber tire would slide on a wet iron rail. I knew that I faced danger, and I tried to escape by crossing one of the rails as close to a right angle as possible with a little speed to avoid slipping. I carefully guided the front wheel across and felt relief for a half second until I heard an unnatural sound from Stefan as the bike tipped, and we fell to the ground. 

We each popped up without injury. He accused me of failing to pay attention, and I asked him why he shifted his weight at the wrong moment. Our yammering continued as we examined the packs. The bike survived except for a small scratch on the side of the seat.  A small group of chattering Japanese repeating “You Ok?” followed us like ducks as I wheeled the cycle to the side of the road. We each told the crowd that we were ”Ok” and signed them with raised thumbs up.  All this attention made me smile and I saw that Stefan also was grinning. Our smiles caused the crowd to disperse smiling except that one woman waved us into her café and brought us a pot of tea. We replayed the incident, blamed it on hat the rain, and clicked cups to convert it into a mere memory. 

Words about our respective post-trip matters seeped into our conversations. I had to deal with the  motorcycle and prepare to leave Japan. Stefan needed to get ready for school which began a few days after we returned. We agreed to a strict schedule. Two days touring the rural area northwest of Kyoto, one day in Kyoto to taste  Kobe beef and to feel women walk on our bodies, perhaps more sightseeing, and a three-day trip to Tokyo.

We had a great time following this agenda. We enjoyed the natural beauty, good food, our time together. But I cannot truthfully tell you that after 60 years, I can specifically describe everything we saw and did. Instead, I will tell stories about what I do remember.

We were winding our way carefully on a narrow, two-lane dirt road because we were top-heavy. Stefan had to shift his weight smoothly to follow the cycle’s path through the curves. I had to keep the speed steady.  A sudden burst of power could case the rear tire to skid on the sandy soil, leading to a repeat performance of our accident in town. 

We were going slow enough to safely stop when we came upon the all-women road work crew on the backside of a blind curve. We may have surprised the gang of women holding picks and shovels as much as they surprised us. Wheelbarrows were scattered among them, but I saw no sign of other equipment. The women all looked a generation older than Stefan and me. The wide brims sloped slightly down on their straw hats, and they all wore loose, long pants and long-sleeved shirts. They appeared to have almost finished reconstructing the outer lane. One woman approached us speaking in Japanese, signing and  pointing toward other workers who were clearing a path in the inside lane for us to pass through. She did not speak English.

We both wondered what happened. Stefan asked the question by signing her with raised shoulders with arms spread wide. We did not understand her explanation in Japanese, but we did understand her sign language. She pointed both arms toward the sky and made a droning sound, then pointed at the damaged road, and made the sound of an explosion. She added one word

“American.”

We shook our heads. She returned our slight bows.  We rode down the path opened by the women. We agreed that American bombers in WWII caused the damage and that repairs to damage in rural areas probably was not completed because the Japanese government prioritized preparation for the Olympics. We also agreed that an all-women crew of older women did the road repairs because many men of their generation died in the War and those who survived had more important work to do. 

They started it. We finished it. War sucks.

As I have said, when I arrived in Japan, I knew that American firebombing devasted Tokyo and many other cities and killed many Japanese. I really did not know what to expect. But I do not recall seeing any physical evidence of the War during my six weeks here except for the victims posted outside the ship’s departure gate. There may be some in Tokyo, but I did not see them. And not a single person I have spoken with has said one word about the war. But today we got an unexpected, raw, gut-level reminder that the war really happened. 

The next day another event supported my growing belief that a spirit will help manage my growth, providing I keep an open mind. 

I don’t know if Stefan would agree, but I believe the quest’s guiding spirt set up the next day’s event to counterbalance what we experienced today.

We continued along the hilly backroads on our return to Kyoto partially because of the natural beauty and partially because they are a fun place to ride a motorcycle. We came out into a long valley and agreed that we should visit the small town we could see at the valley’s end. As we got closer, we could see banners and flags hanging everywhere, and from the outskirts we saw a bandstand and heard Japanese music. We had no choice but to stop and look around. 

That’s when if began to get strange. A small group confronted us on the sidewalk like they expected us. The leader’s first word was “American?” In his broken English, he described the festival, told us that we were honored guests with seats on the stage, a dinner, and a room at the small hotel. My notebook may say otherwise, but I do not remember learning his name or the name of the town. 

I think that the festival had something to do with international peace, but I am not sure. If so, we indeed were prisoners of peace. One host escorted us everywhere. Thanks to creative sign language, broken English, very weak Japanese, and endless beer, we all got along. I never bowed so many times as I did that evening. We did sit in the place of honor. At one point, each of us was introduced and told to stand. We received an ovation, and said “thank you” in Japanese into the mic.  

We hung out in the hostel until clouds broke after a morning rain. I wiped the bike down while Stefan brought the packs out. This was before cycles had an electric start. I kick started it, throttled a couple of times to clear out any moisture, and settled onto my part of the seat. Stefan strapped down the rear pack, stuffed his small pack against my back, and mounted up. I headed up the main street which lead to the distant hills, staying away from the two iron tram tracks that spilt the road into thirds.

I don’t remember why it happened. I may have gotten lost in thought. I may have been distracted by an interesting building. Or I may have reacted to another vehicle. For whatever reason, I drifted between the tracks. I knew better. I was an experienced cyclist. I rode a motorcycle during my last year at the University and had ridden a bicycle since I was very young. I knew that a wet rubber tire would slide on a wet iron rail. I knew that I faced danger, and I tried to escape by crossing one of the rails as close to a right angle as possible with a little speed to avoid slipping. I carefully guided the front wheel across and felt relief for a half second until I heard an unnatural sound from Stefan as the bike tipped, and we fell to the ground. 

We each popped up without injury. He accused me of failing to pay attention, and I asked him why he shifted his weight at the wrong moment. Our yammering continued as we examined the packs. The bike survived except for a small scratch on the side of the seat.  A small group of chattering Japanese repeating “You Ok?” followed us like ducks as I wheeled the cycle to the side of the road. We each told the crowd that we were ”Ok” and signed them with raised thumbs up.  All this attention made me smile and I saw that Stefan also was grinning. Our smiles caused the crowd to disperse smiling except that one woman waved us into her café and brought us a pot of tea. We replayed the incident, blamed it on hat the rain, and clicked cups to convert it into a mere memory. 

Words about our respective post-trip matters seeped into our conversations. I had to deal with the  motorcycle and prepare to leave Japan. Stefan needed to get ready for school which began a few days after we returned. We agreed to a strict schedule. Two days touring the rural area northwest of Kyoto, one day in Kyoto to taste  Kobe beef and to feel women walk on our bodies, perhaps more sightseeing, and a three-day trip to Tokyo.

We had a great time following this agenda. We enjoyed the natural beauty, good food, our time together. But I cannot truthfully tell you that after 60 years, I can specifically describe everything we saw and did. Instead, I will tell stories about what I do remember.

We were winding our way carefully on a narrow, two-lane dirt road because we were top-heavy. Stefan had to shift his weight smoothly to follow the cycle’s path through the curves. I had to keep the speed steady.  A sudden burst of power could case the rear tire to skid on the sandy soil, leading to a repeat performance of our accident in town. 

We were going slow enough to safely stop when we came upon the all-women road work crew on the backside of a blind curve. We may have surprised the gang of women holding picks and shovels as much as they surprised us. Wheelbarrows were scattered among them, but I saw no sign of other equipment. The women all looked a generation older than Stefan and me. The wide brims sloped slightly down on their straw hats, and they all wore loose, long pants and long-sleeved shirts. They appeared to have almost finished reconstructing the outer lane. One woman approached us speaking in Japanese, signing and  pointing toward other workers who were clearing a path in the inside lane for us to pass through. She did not speak English.

We both wondered what happened. Stefan asked the question by signing her with raised shoulders with arms spread wide. We did not understand her explanation in Japanese, but we did understand her sign language. She pointed both arms toward the sky and made a droning sound, then pointed at the damaged road, and made the sound of an explosion. She added one word

“American.”

We shook our heads. She returned our slight bows.  We rode down the path opened by the women. We agreed that American bombers in WWII caused the damage and that repairs to damage in rural areas probably was not completed because the Japanese government prioritized preparation for the Olympics. We also agreed that an all-women crew of older women did the road repairs because many men of their generation died in the War and those who survived had more important work to do. 

They started it. We finished it. War sucks.

As I have said, when I arrived in Japan, I knew that American firebombing devasted Tokyo and many other cities and killed many Japanese. I really did not know what to expect. But I do not recall seeing any physical evidence of the War during my six weeks here except for the victims posted outside the ship’s departure gate. There may be some in Tokyo, but I did not see them. And not a single person I have spoken with has said one word about the war. But today we got an unexpected, raw, gut-level reminder that the war really happened. 

The next day another event supported my growing belief that a spirit will help manage my growth, providing I keep an open mind. 

I don’t know if Stefan would agree, but I believe the quest’s guiding spirt set up the next day’s event to counterbalance what we experienced today.

We continued along the hilly backroads on our return to Kyoto partially because of the natural beauty and partially because they are a fun place to ride a motorcycle. We came out into a long valley and agreed that we should visit the small town we could see at the valley’s end. As we got closer, we could see banners and flags hanging everywhere, and from the outskirts we saw a bandstand and heard Japanese music. We had no choice but to stop and look around. 

That’s when if began to get strange. A small group confronted us on the sidewalk like they expected us. The leader’s first word was “American?” In his broken English, he described the festival, told us that we were honored guests with seats on the stage, a dinner, and a room at the small hotel. My notebook may say otherwise, but I do not remember learning his name or the name of the town. 

I think that the festival had something to do with international peace, but I am not sure. If so, we indeed were prisoners of peace. One host escorted us everywhere. Thanks to creative sign language, broken English, very weak Japanese, and endless beer, we all got along. I never bowed so many times as I did that evening. We did sit in the place of honor. At one point, each of us was introduced and told to stand. We received an ovation, and said “thank you” in Japanese into the mic.