Nothing to Write Home About

I am very behind, yet I have many tales to tell. None so interesting that I will give them the lengthy description that I usually do. I need to stop trying to make adventures out of mere bus trips, I realize.

I went to Suzu again two weeks ago, and that was nearly the same experience as the last time. Not realizing just how far out of the way I was, Travis, from Kahoku, picked me up so I could go to the party. He thought I lived in Shika-machi, which is technically true, but found I lived a full thirty-minutes further than that. What made matters worse was that as we tried to journey to Suzu, we ended up taking back country roads.

When I say back country roads, I'm sure the image of dirt roads in the middle of nowhere comes to mind. However, in Japan, the imagery is altogether haunting. Travis and I were beginning to wonder if there were such things as Japanese rednecks who attack cars and scratch their belly while chewing out the words, "I want the one with the beard. He's perdy." We also began to speculate that there were likely Children of the Rice, an equivalent to our Children of the Corn. Back roads in Japan are horrible, twisting rollercoaster rides that are wide enough for only one car to pass. Couple this with zero visibility due to sheer height of the trees that line the road, it is, indeed, a hair-raising experience. Everynow and then, we pass through a town that was only three or four houses long with one lone vending machine seeming to be the only thing to illuminate the place. Just as we left one town was when we met our first car, and then promptly tried not to meet it so completely that we would be two cars smashed into one bizarre mess.

By the end of the trip, Travis was shaking with adrenaline. When we finally reached a major road, he stopped the car, opened the door, and then proceeded to dance around it. Then, without a word, he buckled up and sped off down the road towards Suzu.

The party itself was okay. I drank very little, fell asleep, and hitched a ride back to Togi with Davin. There were two memorable moments: Damo peeing himself, and the JTE of Suzu's High school falling off his chair, mid-snore, and then puking in the sink.

A few days later, I realized that I was absolutely sick of cooking for myself. So, I dropped by Nick's house, banged on his door loudly, demanding that he put pants on and go to dinner. The food was delicious, if not a little expensive, and I found out how to order a pint of beer. I regaled, or more likely, bored, Nick with tales of Togi. One of which was the world's ex-longest bench. Until that day, I had not found it. Together, we struck out, and it turned out to be exactly where I thought it was, and yet, the last place I would have looked. In general, I'm never right about that sort of thing.

There is something romantic about the bench not being the world's longest, but the ex-longest bench. At one point, the bench, of which I walked the entire length, used to be pristine and loved. It was the only that gave Togi any claim to fame. Now, it barely supported my weight in places, and half of it is ill-kept with grass growing through the slats. What it was before was nothing special (as if they built it, and realized, "hey, this bench is pretty long"), but now it is only an artifact of something that was nothing that special.

My last adventure was to Nanao. One day after I recieved my car, I decided to adventure to the faraway place to visit my friend Judith and to eat at the Fish and Chips place. It was fun, but nothing to write home about (although it is clear that I invariably am). I bought a futon, some new clothes, notebooks, and some CDs. The Fish and Chips place was closed because there was a dance concert of traditional dance and modern dance fusion. My camera, and my ability to shoot at night, did not give these dances justice:

I love life sometimes.