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 theyâll let you camp in their backyard. Charm them and youâll 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 leavesâ 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. âTake the train,â he insisted. âItâs safer and the best way to get back to Narita in time for your plane. They probably donât allow bikes on the long-distance trains, but donât worry. Just take your bike on anyway. Japanese people are very polite. They wonât say anything.â
The November weather is deteriorating so Iâm tempted. Already extended beyond my budget, I have no choice but to ride straight into the teeth of it. One day, an English-speaking fisherman tells me a gale warning has even the big freighters heading for ports. All afternoon, a strong wind broadsides me. Around dusk, it quiets. Somewhere south of Shimizu, I find a stretch of clean beachâa rarity in Japan. The thought of a campfire is irresistible. Storm warning forgotten, I cook and eat a meal of hard-boiled eggs and curry with spaghetti next to a crackling driftwood fire, my campsite a good thirty yards from the surf. The wind picks up when I hit the sack. An hour later, it rains. The wind blows harder. My tent, unstaked on the sand, begins to warp, shaking like a lump of Jell-O. I peek out at the surf crashing white in the ambient light. It looks rougher than before. I zip up my sleeping bag, telling myself it will pass. Iâve sat through plenty of storms. Once I sat in my tent two days waiting for the rain to stop. How bad can it get?
The rain turns pelting. Gusts lift the tentâs windward end. I poke my head outside and taste sand and a tang of salt in the air. This is bad. The
ocean looks a lot closer, maybe fifteen yards off. The tide is coming in. I am worried. Okay, time to pack up. Holding down the jumping tent, I dress as fast as I can. Although I have a flashlight clipped to my
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 leavesâ 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. âTake the train,â he insisted. âItâs safer and the best way to get back to Narita in time for your plane. They probably donât allow bikes on the long-distance trains, but donât worry. Just take your bike on anyway. Japanese people are very polite. They wonât say anything.â
The November weather is deteriorating so Iâm tempted. Already extended beyond my budget, I have no choice but to ride straight into the teeth of it. One day, an English-speaking fisherman tells me a gale warning has even the big freighters heading for ports. All afternoon, a strong wind broadsides me. Around dusk, it quiets. Somewhere south of Shimizu, I find a stretch of clean beachâa rarity in Japan. The thought of a campfire is irresistible. Storm warning forgotten, I cook and eat a meal of hard-boiled eggs and curry with spaghetti next to a crackling driftwood fire, my campsite a good thirty yards from the surf. The wind picks up when I hit the sack. An hour later, it rains. The wind blows harder. My tent, unstaked on the sand, begins to warp, shaking like a lump of Jell-O. I peek out at the surf crashing white in the ambient light. It looks rougher than before. I zip up my sleeping bag, telling myself it will pass. Iâve sat through plenty of storms. Once I sat in my tent two days waiting for the rain to stop. How bad can it get?
The rain turns pelting. Gusts lift the tentâs windward end. I poke my head outside and taste sand and a tang of salt in the air. This is bad. The
ocean looks a lot closer, maybe fifteen yards off. The tide is coming in. I am worried. Okay, time to pack up. Holding down the jumping tent, I dress as fast as I can. Although I have a flashlight clipped to my
Similar Books
