The Translation Warrior introduces Sid Court, author of The Beach Girl and The Decision Vision

How do you describe a way of life so fundamentally different than ours? “Describe” means putting a bunch of words together into a logical order. But does that get across how something looks, what it sounds like, or how it may taste? How can you evoke these in the reader? Maybe you can’t. Maybe the best you can do is tell a story and let the audience make of it what they will.

As author of The Beach Girl, a novelette, and the short story The Decision Vision, this is what Sid Court hopes to do. He hopes to communicate what it’s like to not just reside in Japan, but to live in Japan by putting the reader through it’s courses. In service of this, Sid tends to write ambiguously, seeking not clear-cut conclusions that are satisfying as morals to the story or as story endings, but rather letting the action take its own ambiguous path.

Certainly life has been ambiguous to the author and the translation warrior. And herein may lie one of the great lessons of living in Japan: that you can hold your own views on things, but as long as you do not burden other people with them, you are remarkably free. However, this approach of theirs calls for formality in interactions nearly all the time. It takes a lot to get to a frank expression of the person. But I have known many Japanese people who on the outside were “typical” but on the inside free-spirited and “indie”. See? Here I go again, trying to describe rather than illustrate. Let’s hope Sid does better in his stories.

You can find Sid Court‘s stories on Amazon by following the links below. Please give them a read! 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H67ZLFL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B07G7HWSV7

A book about life (and love) in Japan

For those who may be interested, the translation warrior would like to recommend a book whose story is set in the Japan of the late Showa era (about the mid- to late eighties). Called The Beach Girl, the story depicts the day-to-day life of a Japanese-proficient expat in it for the long haul who is on the verge of entering into an unexpected relationship. And she is a sassy one, that’s for sure.

Portraying the “ordinary” (if such a word can be used to describe anything in Japan), the story avoids clichéd Asian ploys for the westerner’s attention and rejects the sensationalism of the exotic. The translation warrior assures his readers that Japan is an exotic and adventurous enough place without devices like these. This story has adult situations, but maybe that is only natural considering the youthful passionate pursuits of the characters. The protagonist does find himself in a fairly unusual situation, one in which he is poised to learn a lot, if he can stay with it. He is torn and must figure out what to do.

How much the protagonist can speak Japanese is also an interesting topic. He is not 100% fluent like a native speaker, but gets by pretty well with what he knows. Most of the dialogue could be translated into fairly straight-forward Japanese. It might be difficult to find equivalents for a small portion of it, making it a challenge for a translator. Of course, he understands much more than he himself can say, but this is typical of a second language.

Here is the link:

The Beach Girl

Just a stroll

I feel the concrete of the Tokyo sidewalk hard against my step. It is concrete like any in the world, yet it is steeped with the byproducts of Japanese habit and custom and history. I suppose if I knelt down and sniffed at it, it would smell the same as concrete anywhere else. But it would be different. Something imperceivable would be in that smell. Imperceivable, yet I would detect it as an essence rippling through that part of me that was brought up here.

The translation warrior cleans up a mess

The translation warrior makes his way to Takadanobaba to meet a potential client. When did he last get off there? Years ago, maybe even a couple decades ago, that's when. An interesting station, Waseda University defines the scene. Fresh young people walk around in clumps or by themselves. Some could pass for high school freshman in the US. The area itself has the feel of an older Tokyo: He knows that if he takes the side streets as a short cut, he may not be seen again for days. So he walks along Waseda Blvd., whose sides are crowded by small buildings so close to each other, they are sometimes hard to distinguish. An occasional modern building looks sophisticated with its facade of gray shiny panels. His appointment is in one of those.

Meeting over, the translation warrior stands outside on the sidewalk. "Now to clean up that mess," he says to himself. It's been a long time coming, that's for sure. For some reason, instead of contacting him directly, a client has taken to going through *****. This has resulted in the unbelievable situation of ***** skimming off some of his work. The translation warrior even completely missed an opportunity for a job because ***** took it upon ***** to provide the quote, probably with a margin for *****, and maybe including a price for the DTP work (also the translation warrior's), and when a competitor offered a lower price, DID NOT NEGOTIATE and turned it down as TOO CHEAP for *****. All this without authorization from the translation warrior.

A few words later and the mess is gone. Dents and scratches remain, but no more clutter. The translation warrior leaves the building, grim at heart, wondering how long it will last, how far the message will go, and whether there will be any casualties. Will he be one of them?

How the translation warrior spent the day, or it spent him

The translation warrior is beat. Not by a dozen pages of kanji, not by hours of worthless meetings, not even by last night's beer, but by getting a re-entry permit. The Yokohama Immigration office has moved. Not only is it farther away, but it's either a bus ride from one station or a thirty-minute walk from another. The translation warrior does not like the bus, so that left the walk. By the way, it's the rainy season with muggy afternoons at 90 degrees.

His trip started at Starbucks, surprising no one that knows him. Half of the lights were off and the air inside warm. When he mentioned the dark, he was told that today being July 1, energy conservation measures were starting. This to make up for the decreased energy output caused by Tepco's clever placement of under-designed nuclear power plants in a tsunami zone. Guess they never thought a big earthquake might happen in a place like Japan.

After sufficient charging by caffeine, he tackled the trek, taking the train first to Nagatsuta, changing there for the train to Yokohama and traveling all the way the bloody hell out to a station called Shinsugita, changing there to the Seaside line, and getting off two stops later at Torihama for a total of an hour and fifteen or so minutes.

The subsequent thirty-minute walk took him through the humidity and by a huge marina packed with yachts. He wondered if many left the dock on weekends, or just served as party platforms. Nothing against that. He passed a lot of factories (poor substitutes for all the elegant little boutiques on the way to Immigration's previous location). Ahead, he could even see freighters gliding between buildings.

Immigration procedures comprised filling in his birthday, passport number, nationality, and everything else for the millionth time in his career in Japan, submitting the application, buying a 6,000 yen revenue stamp to pay the fee, waiting, and then getting his passport back with his new re-entry permit good for three years.

Now back the other way.

By the time he got home, dusk had lowered from the clouds, and evening was settling in. One whole day gone. Good thing there's no work right now.

The translation warrior rants

Once again the translation warrior is baffled by attitudes about quality of English. The Japanese give the judgement of other Japanese unquestioned credence. When the translation warrior asks one of his clients how his judgement of Japanese quality would be received, he gets the "now that you put it that way" routine. This doesn't occur to anyone?

And how many times has he run across arrogant "English specialists", who are committed to lowering English quality with direct translation, enhanced wordiness, and even by insisting on incorrect usage of "a" and "the." All this along with their own peculiar misunderstandings that are so universal they must be taught in school. This plus the intellectual laziness not to look up correct usage when in doubt. Any "little" problems in their own work can be fixed by "native check," that is, having a native speaker of English go over it. But what does that mean? The translation warrior knows what that means. Somebody hired off of the street looks at the translation and tries to fix it so that it reads normally, usually without reference to the original Japanese. Proofing? No. Editing? No. "Native check"? Yes.

Customers readily fall for the same line over and over: "We provide, accurate, fast, and cheap translation." Sure they do. Fast and cheap? Possible. Quality, too? If you believe that, I have a house for you, built fast and cheap. I'm sure it'll still be a fine building in a few years. Otherwise savvy consumers BELIEVE. Why? I don't know. Perhaps this suspension of belief arises from confidence in the ability of non-native speakers to judge their own translation quality: "My writing is good because I say it is." Heard that before? Like those people who tell you they write only good songs, which you stop listening to after the first 15 seconds.

The translation warrior establishes a new routine

Mornings are not the translation warrior's favorite time of day, but the first cup of coffee makes up for it. Lately he has been having that cup at McDonald's, where he can get it for 120 yen. This satisfies his initial craving to gulp down a bunch, making it easier to slowly sip the next one at Starbucks, where he will spend some time with his portable office, his Toshiba laptop. Starbucks offers a single refill for 100 yen. He enjoys that one after lunch at his favorite yakitori place that serves mackerel in season, broiled over a brazier, and whose master lets him charge up his office. Then it's back to Starbucks for the 100 yen refill, maybe a chocolate chunk scone, and some more work.

The translation warrior strikes again

Starting Tuesday night at 10pm, returned call to customer, who, of course, was still at the office. Half of job has been cancelled. Set up meeting for next morning to go over questions for remaining part of job. Aversion to crowded trains keeps him from early morning appointments, so make this one for 11am.

After struggling awake, get to station half hour before train time, enough to enjoy a cup of coffee and to go over the questions, none of which he remembers. Quickly reminded of them.

On the train, and the translation warrior is off to Tokyo. Took the express, fairly confident it won't get packed at that time. Just barely right. Get to Roppongi 10 minutes early. Dive into Starbucks for an espresso. A fine break before the meeting.

After checking in at reception, manned by pretty, well made up, and cheerfully polite as only Japanese can be receptionists, head to third floor "waiting corner", which is a corner of a large room with tables in the middle and meeting areas in the perimeter. We get a small partitioned spot, the only place available at 10pm the night before.

Meeting goes as expected. Lots of problems in the Japanese. And the translation warrior's reading comprehension. But gratified that one of his questions was also asked by a FF customer, so it's not just the translation warrior. Take a lunch break, eating at a Vietnamese place on the first floor gourmet floor. Quite good. The girls are Vietnamese with accents and adequate Japanese.

Resume meeting after half hour break. Discuss how translation is priced, and possible future work. Good for translation warrior.

After meeting, go back to Starbucks, but, as usual, it's full. But there's another on the corner, also full, but he luckily gets a table on the second floor. Call friend whose little office is nearby. He joins him, and they bitch about the agent that takes a cut while doing nothing, absolutely nothing except get in the way.

This "meeting" over, off the translation warrior goes back to Minami Rinkan. He changes, gets ready to go to gym, and takes off again.

At gym, playing squash, a couple of unfamiliar young women with racquets show up. The translation warrior and friends have the court for the next hour, so he feels sorry for them. But something tells him they are pretty good. Racquets are in cloth sacks instead of the manufacturer's vinyl case. One of the guys offers to let them play. A vague response meaning no thanks. Afterwards, watching them, the translation warrior figures maybe a guy's strength and speed could make up for their skills, as they look and play like real squash players, not amateur clods like them. Another guy shows up, one with contacts throughout the squash community. Do you know them? the translation warrior asks. Yes, one's the current Japan National Champion, he says, rescuing the translation warrior from a potentially embarrassing ass-kicking. And conception of being able to take them goes out the window.

Going Back

When I first set out for Japan at the age of twenty-four, my final landing was at Itami airport in Osaka. Japanese friends I had made in college lived in that area, leading to the, in retrospect, monumental decision to make Osaka my final destination instead of famous Tokyo. They picked me up in the dark winter evening of my arrival, and thus I embarked on the adventure of my life. My first stay was at a friend's house in the hills around Nara, where I woke up the next morning on a cold winter day, looked out the window, and saw a frost coated rice field tucked in between a road and a hill, and scattered with oriental-shaped bundles of hay. This was my first view of Japan.

For the next four and a half years, I lived an intense new life. Finally isolated from family influence (AKA interference), everything I accomplished there was mine. And there was much to accomplish. Language, culture, customs, stimulating new friends; all this plus my determination to relate to the Japanese on their terms, a pursuit that, I humbly add, put me a step ahead and served me well in the future. So to my great fortune, I wound up spending my latter twenties in an environment of virtually minute-by-minute reward after reward. Every time I spoke, I felt satisfaction at having communicated in an exotic language. Every time I made a new friend in Japanese, I gloried in having done so without pandering to the "I-speak-English" mentality common among foreigners. I could go on and on. Then, I left. A job opportunity: off to Tokyo. The beginning of my next life. New adventure took over and Osaka was gone. But it wasn't gone, not really.

During all the succeeding years working in Tokyo and living in nearby Yokohama, I hardly ever considered visiting Osaka. Thoughts of friends and memories of my "place" in the Osaka scene visited me now and then, but, in the same way I have no interest in high school reunions, I saw no point in going back. I had gone on. But I guess the time had come, because during my stay in Japan last year, hitherto vague notions coalesced into an idea to be acted on. It would be nice, I thought, to make a pilgrimage there, a sort of homecoming. I initiated a preliminary search for old friends, trying old phone numbers with odd results. (I didn't know that ten years ago an extra digit had been added to Osaka phone numbers.) Then I found one on the Internet, who knew another. A few minutes later I had talked to them both over the phone for the first time in twenty years. This sealed the deal and I set the dates for the trip.

I took the shinkansen (bullet train) the two hours and fifteen minutes from Yokohama to Osaka, a remarkably smooth ride. At the Osaka station, I set foot on the platform in the humid heat of the Osaka summer and took in the distinctive Osaka air. Familiarity came rushing back to me. Two subway stops and a short walk later and I was at my lodgings. The guy at the front desk: good gosh, his deep Osaka dialect. And that accent! I could now hear the Osaka accent, and finally realized how startled my first Tokyo acquaintances must have been at my Osaka-inspired Japanese. (Its particularities started insinuating themselves back into my Japanese, too, especially under the influence of beer.) From check in, my time in Osaka was packed with "experiencing". I wandered the streets, gazed at new and old buildings, and met up with five people I hadn't seen in twenty years, some Japanese, some American. The more I caught up, the more I saw how much my life there had meant to me. And I was back! I fit right back in. Inexplicably, my Tokyo life—despite having been much longer—receded to the status of mere footnote to Osaka's major narrative.

Some things had changed. The Higashi-Umeda branch of Berlitz, where I used to teach English (a job I detested), was no longer, my previous apartment building was crumbling away and, according to a neighbor woman, unlivable, owner not to be found (a rather unusual circumstance, I should add), and the Osaka apartments where an ex-girlfriend used to live had turned into a...

...gay club :(. Before I figured this out, the guys working in the ramen shop on the first floor had to have seen me standing outside across the street, staring up at the floors above with melancholy longing.

While at an "izakaya" (a typical eating/drinking place) with my two Japanese friends, I asked if they had ever searched for me on the Internet, as I had for them. Nope, never had. True, sometimes they had wondered what had ever happened to me, as I had simply dropped out of sight after leaving. One reason (excuse) they gave for never trying was that they didn't know how to spell my last name. They had me there.

I arrived in Osaka on a Thursday and left the next Sunday. But those few days reconnected me with a past that, in the glow of an exciting new future in Tokyo, I had thoughtlessly shoved onto a back shelf in a dark closet. Yet, the time was ripe for it to come out again and restore its place in my life, reminding me of where I had been and, more importantly to me, from what direction I had since come. It was as if all this time I had been trailing a ribbon whose other end I had lost sight of. Now I had traced it back and found where it was tied.

For several days afterwards, Tokyo/Yokohama seemed so pale. Osaka is, after all, thick with character. And a friendliness pervades it that sets it apart from reserved Tokyo. I got used to Tokyo again, but was more than a little pleased that I had dug up my Japanese roots and reincorporated them into my life.

So that's what I am these days, a guy with five lives so far: up to college, college, Osaka Japan, Tokyo Japan, and US repatriate. Kind of wonder what's next.

Shopping for a Kotatsu

I moved into my first apartment in Japan in September 1983. I still have a copy of my first lease. It was called a "mansion", a word borrowed from English, to distinguish it from regular apaato, another borrowed word. The distinction of it being built of reinforced concrete rather than just wood qualified it for the term. It therefore supposedly had thicker walls for better sound insulation, a misconception my poor neighbors paid for in later years after I bought an electric guitar, and for which I'm paying for now as karma catches up with me.

I visited my old mansion a few months ago, the first time I had seen it in over twenty years. It's now a crumbling building. Unmaintained, it's too dangerous to live in, according to a neighbor lady, who was also concerned about its structural stability in case of an earthquake. Apparently the owner cannot be found, and the police cannot do anything, either.

I looked up at my old room on the corner of the second floor, remembering all the things that happened there that were such a huge part of my adventures in Japan. It was sad to think that it was just a decrepit old room now, probably filled with decaying tatami mats, beat up walls, and rusting pipes. But it was once full of life, a life intense with new and exciting experience. Not many rooms in Japan can say that.

But maybe it's all for the better: I'm quite sentimental; in its current state, there's no longer any reason for me to go back there, as I surely would if it was still thriving.

When I first moved in, I had virtually nothing, except the bare necessities donated to me by kind friends. I'd had to pay ￥500,000 up front as a deposit, six months rent, a figure they had decreased to make it "easier for me to move in". In the Osaka area, such deposits were typical. It had three rooms, arranged linearly. You entered into the kitchen, which had a vinyl floor, then followed straight into the middle and end rooms, both of which were covered in tatami. The rooms were measured in size by the number of tatami mats, each mat 955mm x 1910mm (I had to look this up). The middle room was a four and a half mat room, the end one a six mat room. From the end room, you could walk out onto the veranda, which had hooks for suspending a pole for hanging laundry, something I had yet to buy. I needed a washing machine, too. Dryers were virtually non-existent, and are even now not popular. The feel of naturally sun-dried clothes is still preferred.

Speaking of washing machines, the type available in those days was a simple unit with two basins, one for washing and the other for spin-drying. After the wash cycle finished, you had to move the clothes into the spin-dryer. Also typical of those days, my mansion had no place to set a washing machine inside, so I put it outside next to the entrance, where hoses from the kitchen could reach it, or were there outside faucets? I don't remember now. Nowadays, totally automatic washing machines are most common, but for those who prefer the old system, the old-style units are still available. As was usual in my thinking of those days, I regarded their washing machines as the result of primitive thinking, not of rational choice. I later found out my mistake when a friend stated a firm preference for the dual basin types because of the control they offered. Another moment of enlightenment, of which there were many as I encountered case after case of different ways that had sprung from roots I had never even imagined. This type of experience gradually ground away at my own unconsciously held ideas of cultural superiority, till it finally threatened to reach bare metal, where it has stopped, leaving an equilibrium between tolerance and remnants of smugness.

I've drifted from my story, I see, so back to my old room.

Another piece of equipment lacking in Japanese apartments was a heater. This partly stemmed from a preference for natural air. Even in the dead of winter, families would open all windows and inside doors (the fusuma sliding door) to air out the home. You had to be tough in those days. Heat, when needed, was supplied by a variety of heaters, called stoves. One type was a kerosene stove, which provided not only enough heat for one of the six mat rooms, closed off by fusuma, but also a flat surface for setting a pot to heat water for Japanese green tea. You were on your own outside of that room, though. The toilet room and bath room could be ice cold in winter.

Another means of keeping warm was the kotatsu. This was a low square table the height of a coffee table with a heater fixed to the underside. In winter you lay a thick futon-like quilt over it, then placed a second main table top over this. You then turned on the heater and slipped your legs under the kotatsu, covering your lap with the futon. This could be hard on those of us not used to sitting cross-legged for long periods. Older houses had pits that solved this problem. The kotatsu was placed over this so you could sit with your legs dangling in. The kotatsu made up for low room temperatures, but even in milder seasons, was still the centerpiece for meals and visiting, there usually being no other dining facilities such as table and chairs.

September in Japan is a wonderful season when the summer humidity has finally broke, but the days are still splendidly warm. And Osaka summers were sultry affairs. Still, as the season progressed, the days got cooler. I had an old electric heater among the donations I received, which worked pretty well.

My old heater, which saw use until I

left Japan 23 years after receiving it.

But I also needed a table. And keeping the entire room heated all the time was impractical, as well as expensive, electricity rates being high. So I decided to buy a kotatsu, one of my first purchases of a typical Japanese item, after of course the washing machine and monohoshizao -- the pole for hanging laundry. Those poles are quite long, six feet or more, making them hard to carry if you bought them from a store. I bought mine from an itinerant merchant who carried his stock around in a miniature pickup truck, slowly driving through neighborhoods with his loudspeaker on, through which he blared his presence and wares. I had neither car nor even a 50cc moped at the time, even though I lived a thirty minute walk from the train station (I took the bus in those days), so this was a welcome convenience. I can't remember the last time I saw one of those.

Like Tokyo, Osaka was made up of a bunch of distinct districts, each with a separate character. Honmachi, for instance, was the business district, Namba the nighttime drinking place and haunt of disco goers, and Umeda the center for all the train lines. Another was Nippon Bashi. This district was the electric town because it was where shops that sold electrical goods were concentrated, like Tokyo's more famous Akihabara. I decided to go to Nippon Bashi to find a kotatsu. For the all too rare pleasure of living in the moment, this shopping trip became one of my treasured Japanese memories. There was something about it that stuck with me, maybe something like the feeling you get the first time you swim in warm ocean water.

It was a cool autumn day, not chilly. The sky was gray, but the air clear and transparent like pure stream water on a cloudy day. My friend, who I may have invited because he had a car, and I walked along the Nippon Bashi streets. The shop keepers had set outside for display their goods for sale. We walked from shop to shop, probably looking at such items as raji-cassetttes (compact portable radio-cassette players), stereos, hot water pots, and all manner of appliances, all of a compact design conducive to a full lifestyle in the limited space available in apartments. After all, most students and single people lived in less space than I had, maybe a single six mat room or less! They were pleasing to look at for their perfectly adapted utility. They had a completeness in their unity of purpose. Though slightly different in appearance, according to the manufacturer, all were designed to be attractive and convenient to use. Lines and details were fine, not pumped up, and would enhance any Japanese person or person's room in their use.

We turned a corner. Through the clear fall air wafted a familiar melody. In the crowd of wares on the sidewalk in front of the corner shop, a record player, needle floating and bobbing on a black disk, was playing Gazebo's "I Like Chopin", a big hit at the time, only this was being sung by a female Japanese singer. A faithful but subtly varied arrangement wove between the lyrics vocalized in Japanese by a smooth, faintly sultry voice. Enthralled, I fell in love with the moment and have never forgotten the beautiful melody flavored by the fine touch of Japanese on a cool pastel Japanese autumn day.

I asked who the singer was and was perhaps shown the album cover, or simply told that it was Asami Kobayashi.

I bought a kotatsu from one of the stores, got it home somehow, and used it for years, all the years I was in Japan.

My kotatsu, standing on worn out tatami

117 Coupe

I didn't think I'd buy a car in Japan. I didn't want to pay the parking or the once-every-two-year (or at that time yearly for cars older than ten years) shaken—the safety inspection and road tax that wound up costing over 100,000 yen. On top of that was the 40,000 yen car tax that comes every April. Plus expensive gas. And I didn't think I'd be in Japan long enough to justify all this. Therefore, I bought a car.
 
My first was a yellow Isuzu 117 Coupe, a sporty little car with the 1800cc SOHC engine and cool exhaust note. The interior was black vinyl. And no air conditioning. Those hot humid Osaka summers were hell at stoplights. The rest of the time was palatable if you kept the windows open. Pretty sure I paid 300,000 yen for it.

I had a lot of fun driving that car between Osaka and Kobe and up to Rokko-san where all the hot rodders raced around on the curvy roads. I couldn't keep up, of course, and would always let them by, for which they would thank you by flipping on and off their emergency flashers. Hot rodders have the best road manners in Japan.

That car took me to Tokyo and Kyushu. In Kyushu it stopped dead one day. Out in the countryside, of course. Turned the ignition, and nothing happened. My friend and I rolled it down a hill, hoping to start it by popping the clutch. But nothing. We finally gave up, found a phone somewhere, and called a road service called JAF. An hour or so later the guy arrived in his clean truck and neat uniform, opened the hood, and after a quick look said "Oh, what's this?" pointing to a loose wire. What a relief that that was all it was. Unbelievable nowadays, that a car could so easily be repaired.

I stayed at this same friend's house in Kita Kyushu. Upon arriving, because of the narrow road and garage door, he insisted on putting my car in their garage for me and scratched up the rear fender. I still remember his sheepish look. He, of course, insisted also on paying for the body work, but because he was a college student with little money, I didn't have the heart for it and told him we could take care of later. He got out of it, as we shall soon see.

While driving on the expressway on a trip to Tokyo, probably to show off my new 117 Coupe to a friend, a car cut me off just so the young driver and his girlfriend could stare and point at me in their rearview mirror. Fortunately that doesn't happen anymore. But in the Kansai area in those days, I was an oddity.

Well, that car got totaled by a Volkswagen Bug that ran a stop sign, taking out my front end. The driver was in some kind of hurry and missed the sign. Not inconceivable considering how well some of them are hidden. He was also getting married soon, so not wanting any trouble, was compliant about taking the blame. Which, in Japan, also fell on me, as I was informed by the cops when I tried to make my case at the Koban that the fault was his. My crime? Zenpofuchui （前方不注意）, or inadequate attention to what was going on ahead of me, a catchall cause attributed to just about anyone in an accident, it seems, except maybe the passengers. Anyway, the fender scratches didn't need repairing anymore. I enjoyed calling my friend to tell him that.

It was a fun little car, and I was sad to lose it. But this other friend who had helped me buy it at his cousin's repair yard also helped get a maximum settlement (of 250,000 yen, was it?) that would set me up for my next car. Yes, another car in Japan. You could go nearly anywhere by train, but not everywhere. In addition, bombing around in the Osaka area was fun. It was said that if you could handle driving in Osaka, you could drive anywhere.

I remember in some of my first outings how nervous I was. When I tried to merge onto a busy road, I could not find an opening and wound up having to stop. Instead of waiting for his turn, the truck behind me went ahead and merged, barreling into the racing traffic that was intimidating me. I knew then I was doing something wrong. After some experience, I finally learned that if an Osaka driver backs off from tailgating the car in front of him for an instant, that's considered being given an opening to merge. Quick reaction is required or else your chance is gone.

Other first experiences included getting hopelessly lost on the expressways, all of which are toll ways, by the way. In one case I was invited to my friend's homestay family's birthday party for one of the daughters. They lived in Moriguchi, about an hour away. I left at around 4:00 pm and arrived at midnight, missing all of the festivities. On my way there, I had somehow entered an expressway. I decided to get off the expressway and ask for directions when I saw the signs for Kyoto soon ahead. I found a fire station by the exit and went in. I asked how to get to Moriguchi from there. Puzzled looks. "Moriguchi? Where?" I was disheartened. They directed me back to Osaka and suggested I ask again when I got close. I no longer remember the order of my endless follies that night, but I circled around so much that I had to get off the expressway and get gas. Finally I gave up and went home, something I was always able to do from no matter where I was. There I called my friend and arranged to meet up with the homestay son-in-law at a location known to both of us, took off, and was there an hour later.

As I write this, I keep remembering other stories. Another time I was to follow a friend's car to Nara. At a key fork in the expressway, they got so far ahead of me in this brand new Nissan 280Z that I lost sight of them. They went on to Nara. I went to Sakai. Again I asked directions, this time at a toll gate after getting off the expressway and turning around. After the repressed laughter, and laudable directions in broken English, I got back home, called somebody, arranged something, but wasn't sure what, and started off again on my own. It was pure luck that the first rest area I happened to stop at had them there waiting for me, to all of our surprise. When we arrived at my friend's brother's place in the hills around Nara, I was told to park down the street in front of their business's office. Trying to show off, I zoomed over there, misjudged braking distance and rammed the office front window, which apparently was strong glass. It didn't shatter, but I was later told that it bowed way in. The look of terror on the brother's wife sitting at the desk behind the window is hard to forget.

But after a while, I did master the roads and the driving. I was addicted.

Standing on a Sandy Cliff

Standing on a sandy cliff my face against the wind lines of white across the blue roaring in the din. Twilight promise of the night the boldest stars begin to light the swells whose nighttime glow beckons moonlight kin. Drawn by whispers of the breeze the ocean calls from deep within Alas, I must now turn away and say good-bye again.

Purposeful chatter and half-formed ideas and dreams: Returning students used to college life. New student—any uncertainty subsumed by the excitement of doing new things on their own—being drawn forward into their unknown but anticipated future.
It's been a long time since I left that life. Wandering around on campus, I said hello to a lot of ghosts. **** Hall is no longer a dorm, but I could look up at the window of my old room on the third floor and remember what happened there. I also sat in the lounge of the last dorm I lived in and communed with the ghosts there—different ones, of course.
Later, I thought about how places can make long dormant memories pulsate within you. Like when I visited Osaka for the first time in twenty years: Walking along Shin-Midosuji, I reached an intersection that read "Sonezaki". After I had moved from Osaka, Sonezaki became just a word that I hardly ever even heard. But when I saw the sign, it came back to life and became a place again, one full of experience.
Except that it wasn't quite full. Something was missing.
In each case I was back, but I wasn't. All those memories? They're just ghosts hanging around the place. I've gone on, though sometimes I cannot see that.
So, I think I'll start a blog. It will be written just for me, and sure, anyone else that might drop by and find something they like here. I think it'll contain random musings, some music stuff, maybe a poem or two.
And maybe it'll help me regain a sense of continuity between now and then. I was gone a long time.