On the Road Again

Bright ’n’ early the following morning, did I arise and, after a hearty breakfast, slip off to the train station in Yokuska where I purchased a round trip ticket to Tokyo. I was so much taller than the local inhabitants, that I felt as strange as Gulliver must’ve felt, walking amongst the Lilliputians. Besides, I had to laugh at the din of completely incomprehensible cackling that rose to greet my ears. Even though I spoke not a word of Japanese, I had little trouble purchasing a ticket for Tokyo.

Onboard the train, I was amazed at the speed with which the train zoomed through the countryside, stopping just long enough to allow passengers to get on and off. And I wondered why we didn’t have in place such a modern and efficient means of transportation in St. Louis. I certainly would’ve had it easier, traveling from South County, where I lived, to see Mary at her parents place in North County.

What little I saw of the countryside from the window of the train was simply gorgeous. However, the lush beauty of the precipitous foothills that surrounded the quaint little villages, nestled snugly into every nook ’n’ cranny along the line, quickly gave way to a flattened terrain, monotonously dressed in the urban sprawl of a more modern Tokyo.

When it came time for me to disembark from the train, I felt as if I were stepping into some fantasy without the slightest clue of what was going to happen next. For I’d found no unfolding tale here to guide me, till I stumbled upon the most unusual park I’d ever seen, one completely surrounded by a massive stone wall, like the fief of some medieval warlord. Upon entering the grounds, through one of its large open gates, I wound up roaming about this dreamlike world for hours, taking pictures of its perfectly manicured gardens, groves of cherry trees in full bloom, and quaint old Japanese structures. I was never more impressed by anything I saw in Tokyo than by this singular glimpse into Japan’s past, for Tokyo was like any other large city in the States, choked with its monuments to commercialism like an overcrowded cemetery.

Having worked up an appetite, I flagged down a cabdriver who seemed to understand as well as speak a little English. When I asked him to take me to a good but reasonably priced restaurant, we sped off down through a maze of very narrow ’n’ windy side streets as if he were trying to catch up with the other entrants in the Grand Prix after having been forced to make an unexpected pit stop. So did I about have a heart attack whenever we zoomed past an oncoming vehicle traveling at the same high rate of speed. Not realizing what I’d gotten myself into, I thought my fate was surely sealed as I imagined a head-on collision with every car we passed. Still in a near state of shock by the time this roller coaster ride came to an end, I was miraculously left standing in one piece on the sidewalk in front of a place that looked like any other small ethnic, neighborhood restaurant back in the States.

Having regained my wits about myself, I entered the restaurant and sat down. Shortly thereafter, an elderly Japanese woman handed me a menu which, much to my surprise, was written in English. Looking forward to a good sampling of Japanese cuisine, I soon discovered that I was about to enjoy a good old-fashioned American meal. After feasting on a sumptuous steak dinner, I graciously thanked my very modest hostess for such an excellent meal, whereupon I quickly found myself back out on the streets again.