Loc:
Manhattan Beach
Conditions:
3-4 FT+, consistent, open faces.
Board:
5’9 Motorboat Too
Pre
Blog:
I had originally meant to write this blog
post while in Japan. I was going to interfuse this session together with my
“Japan adventures,” but unfortunately, I spend most of my time in Japan working
without much opportunity for sightseeing. That being said, I did get two nights
off with my battle buddy, so I at least do have some pictures and things to
write about but not much. So here I go, now trying to reflect on a surf session
that took place nearly a month ago.
That
Day Before I left:
I had been on a good surf streak, a roll,
and not just the physical activity of surfing but researching about board
designs and fins. I had swapped out different sizes and different models,
composites to signature series, even damaging boards along the process. I had
to see my board guy twice for dings, even dropped off Christina’s blue Zippi
with Rick for a cobblestone collision from Churches. Also, my layback snap was
still a work in progress, and after all those things it really sucked to only
have one more session, knowing that I’d be gone for three weeks.
I didn’t expect the surf to be great, just
average if anything. I would have been happy with that. Bri and I went to our
local surf spot and met up with Klaude. A typical sunny pre-winter morning with
the sun blinding everyone one the rights. I had my Motorboat Too because I
expected the tide to be up and the waves to be spilling instead of barreling.
With the recent board swaps, I realized that I didn’t have to keep my Motorboat
Too on ice but that I had to really choose the right days to use it. Lost Mini
Driver at the hint of anything throaty. MB Too for rippable days where a fish
or a longboard isn’t necessary.
Just a few things stand out in my memory.
First, Bri was doing well, but she got cold into the second hour and headed
back up the hill to change out early.
Meanwhile, Klaude and I were trading off
waves back and forth. It was an orgy of rides. I remember late take offs, stomping
on the tail hard to keep my nose out from the flat rocker. No lefts come to
mind, but my wave of the day is easy to remember. With Bri on the sand, a peak
came my way. I was in perfect position for the right. Even though most of the
waves were walled, this one came through with a good shoulder. Paddling late, I
popped up and slid down the face, setting myself up with a bottom turn. I got
my first snap, winded up, and got another. Into my third turn, I couldn’t
believe that this wave was staying open this long. The fourth turn happened on
the inside, and I fell on the reentry.
Second best wave was a set-wave left. I
dropped in, bottom turned, and pulled in underneath the lip. The conditions
weren’t barreling that day, but there were some freak waves with size. Based on
my recent progression in barrel attempts, I instinctually pulled into the tube.
Not even on my barrel board, I was driving with the lip swirling over me. It
was fast, but I held my line and got some distance. Of course, I didn’t make it
out. I’m not that good at barrels yet, but I’m at least riding them better than
I ever have before. Resurfacing, Don K, The King of 26th, was making
his way out right by me.
“You’re lucky to get one of those,” he
said.
I replied with my standard, “But I didn’t
make it out.”
#
Bri, Klaude, and I headed to Mandy’s in El
Segundo for breakfast where Klaude gave me some useful phrases for Japan. Bri
insisted that I learn more, but really, I wasn’t gonna absorb too much a day
before flying out.
“How do I say that I liked the food as I’m
leaving a restaurant?” I asked.
“Gochisousama deshita. And before eating,
itadakimasu.”
“What does that mean?”
He laughed. “Literally, I am about to
commence eating.” He put his hands together, bowed his head, and said it.
#
It was a twelve hour direct flight to
Narita Airport. Not an easy twelve hours either. I read my book, tried to watch
some movies, but I was too restless. Couldn’t get comfortable for shit. With
most of the people sleeping, I looked around. Everyone was watching Frozen. I haven’t seen that shit yet,
but I heard it was good.
I didn’t have a window seat, so I couldn’t
see much when we landed, but I was still excited regardless. New destination.
Wheels hitting the ground, I was officially in Japan.
Customs wasn’t an issue, and once arriving
outside with our bags, we already saw Americans holding up signs that read Yama
Sakura, the military exercise that my buddy Dale and I were participating in.
First thing I noticed was the cold. Fuck.
No rain, no snow, but just fucking ice-chilling air hitting my face. They threw
us on a bus and gave me a phone number for further direction.
There was one dude and a couple with a
baby. Dale and I sat in the back. Two and a half hour trip. I wanted to see as
much as I could, but it was dark outside, the highway desolate with sparse
pairs of red tail lights. Suddenly, there was a huge ass structure to our left
way in the distance. A sign in green neon letters read AEON MALL. Another mile,
and I realized that the structure we had seen was just the fucking parking lot.
Now the building was even bigger and brighter with more colors.
Apartment buildings lined the highway so
closely that you could almost jump out and land in someone’s balcony. Each
glimpse inside a window was fast, but I caught T.V.s, laundry on the line,
units stacked tightly on top of each other like Legos, and AC units placed
methodically on their corners. The buildings were narrow but tall and gray, and
they seemed to stretch out as far as I could see.
Upon reaching Camp Zama, the bust dropped
us off at the Zama Hotel. From outside, it looked like any basic barracks
building, but this one had a fancy walkway and a sliding door.
Expecting everything to be cool, I walked
up to the front desk, gave the lady our names, and asked for our reservations.
She was a middle-aged Japanese woman, maybe some officer’s husband or just a
civilian working on post.
“Hmmm,” she said. “We weren’t expecting
anyone else for the night. Names again?” She typed typed away, shook her head,
and said that we weren’t in the system.
If it’s flawless, it’s not the military. I
placed a couple of calls and was told that the reservations were on us, which
is bullshit because no one had told us shit at our home unit. Someone dropped
the ball, but the front desk lady said that they still had rooms, so Dale and I
booked them in hope of being reimbursed later.
It was about 2200 hours, and even though we
had the whole night to ourselves, we raided the food in the lobby and called it
a night. Jet lag and all, we both needed rest. Had we known that we wouldn’t be
getting shit for time off, we probably would have handled the night
differently.
#
We were picked up the following morning at 0600 by two soldiers
to be escorted to Yokota Air Base for our one-day training before the mission.
The soldiers were young women, one Sergeant, one Private First Class, of the
African American selection.
It was still dark when we left, and Camp Zama seemed to be a
series of wet hills, glowing from the faded peach light of street lamps. They
were driving on the left side of the road. Been a while since I had seen
something like that. Every car on the road was compact, like purposely designed
smaller and cubed for the layout of the city. Into 0700, the dark sky turned
into a dull gray, making all the buildings resemble the same. Despite the
crappy weather, I was still excited, for everything I saw was new.
We asked our transporters how they liked Japan, and they said
that they hated it. They didn’t like seafood, missed barbecue from back in the
states, and even said that the people were rude.
“You see,” said the sergeant. “If we looked like ya’ll, maybe it
would be different.”
After our training was done, the sergeant drove us back to Zama.
In afternoon rush hour traffic, I noticed that she kept falling asleep behind
the wheel. Cars honked behind her. Her eyes jolted open, and she honked back at
them with a vicious snarl on her face.
“My next duty station is Hawaii,” she said.
#
 |
| View outside my hotel room window. A rainy day in Japan. |
Facing our first night off, Dale and I
walked outside the gate to explore what the surrounding areas had to offer. The
gate was strictly a pedestrian gate. Convenient. The fenceline around post was
enveloped by small houses and apartment buildings, literally surrounded by a
community.
The weather was still shit, even sprinkling
on us. The air temp was in the mid forties, but we did okay in our light
jackets. Dale had his gloves. Me, a beanie.
One thing Klaude had said was to try
Yoshinoya in Japan. That’s right. Rat Bowl, formerly named after its signature
dish, Beef Bowl. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a Yoshinoya right at the
corner once we reached the main street. Along the way, we had passed up a bunch
of other small restaurants with picture menus, some with fake displays of their
dishes.
But we went into Yoshinoya since it was a
“must do” according to Klaude. I worried about the language barrier. Luckily,
there was only one other person inside eating. The cashiers greeted us in
Japanese. I could only respond with a “hello.” The menu was intimidating, a
huge list of kanji. Before I could show a mannerism that expressed my idiocy,
the cashier returned with an English menu that was probably an eighth of the
size of the Japanese menu. Dale and I pointed at the pictures.
Just like that, the place went from dead
silence to bustling with the locals who were on their lunch breaks. People line
up behind us for to go orders. A man sat right next to me. When the food came
out, I was shocked at the presentation. Nothing like SoCal. Bowls, no foam
containers. Miso soup, sizzling beef on a hot plate, a separate bowl for rice,
and a smaller one with a raw egg in it.
 |
| How Yoshinoya was intended to be... |
Then a new fear overtook me. I didn’t want
to eat my meal wrong. No one was watching us, but I still felt like I was in
everyone’s periphery. Once I heard the guy next to me slurping his noodles, I
knew that I’d be all right.
Within minutes, the place started clearing
out. It was as if everyone had been on the same lunch schedule. With precision,
customers were eating and leaving while Dale and I were only halfway through.
When we were done, I thought about using
one of Klaude’s phrases as I walked out the door. The cashiers said goodbye in
Japanese. I chickened out.
 |
| Don't know the name of the street, but I was still fascinated. |
 |
| Just another random |
 |
| On the way back to base |
At dinner, we ventured further down the
main street. Dale had done this same mission two years ago, so he recommended
we find a sushi-go-round. With the exchange rate at 120 Yen per U.S. dollar, it
was a little confusing to figure out how much we were actually spending.
The workers must’ve been used to Americans
because they sat us down right away in front of the go-round belt. They gave us
hot towels before we started eating. Again, I didn’t want to fuck this up. A
Japanese business man was sitting next to me. He may have glanced. I’m not
sure. I wiped my hands with it and looked for the wasabi. There wasn’t any. I
uncapped a ceramic bottle and found some green powder.
“Here it is,” I said to Dale. We both put
some in our soyu. He tasted his.
“This is tea,” he said. He pointed out the
faucets lining the table. That’s right. Little ones with hot water. The powder
was fucking green tea.
No wasabi. Was this the true Japanese way?
Had America had it all wrong after all this time? The cuts of sushi were much
brighter in color, like the tuna was an eye piercing red. It was hard to figure
out the yellow tail from the salmon. The pictures didn’t help, but the quality
was decent. Surprisingly, some of the dishes that are average back home were
really good here, like the crab sushi. It was just fresher.
 |
| Doing some damage |
Dale kept eying the dessert that kept
passing him on the belt. It was creamy and looked like soft serve. “I’m going for
it,” he said. He grabbed the plate. “No spoon, huh?” He grabbed it with his
chopstick and bit into it. It was solid. “That’s weird.” He touched it. It was
a fucking display.
 |
| Creeping... |
 |
| Salmon...? |
At the end, my bill came out to 2000 Yen,
which is like $16 and some change. Who the fuck gets full off of sushi for
sixteen bucks?
The Japanese waiter smiled and said
something in Japanese when we left. Timid, I cracked open my mouth and cleared
my throat. I almost froze but managed to say, “Go-chi-sou-sama-desh-ita.”
The dude smiled even wider and bowed twice.
We debated on finding some dessert at
another place, but we were immediately belted by the wind and sharp rain that
stung our faces. Everyone on the street had umbrellas but us. I draped my hood.
We headed back to the hotel.
#
Two MPs escorted us the following morning
to the mission site. One was six foot eight from Wisconsin, a former Cav Scout
like myself, so we hit it off all right. His name was SPC Hodor. The driver was
a skinny Black dude from Brooklyn who looked like Mos Def. So we asked them
what they thought about Japan from their perspective.
Shit, it was like night and day from what
the female soldiers had said. Apparently, Roppongi is the spot to pick up a
bird and wear her out. The bar and party district in Tokyo, it’s where the
hip-hop clubs are.
“But being in the Army sucks,” said Mos. He
made us privy to the 0100 curfew and the no-chicks-in-the-barracks rule. “I’m a
grown ass man, and we got all these rules.”
Hodor talked about how he had only been in
Japan since April, but that before the mission started, he had climbed Mount
Fuji.
They also enlightened us about something
important about our destination. General Order #1 was in place. No alcohol, no
going off post. Fuck me. . .
#
We met the Mayor Cell Commander. Dale had
worked with him before the last time he was here. Opening up the door to our
barracks room, it was like walking back into World War II. The mattresses had
cum stains from my grandpa’s generation. I mean, splotches and stains were everywhere.
The bunk frames were rusty and covered in chipped paint. It was worse than Camp
Roberts California, and that’s saying a lot.
 |
| Welcome to spooge town |
 |
| But on a good note, we did have this bay to ourselves for almost the whole mission |
Around the post, we were still excited with
our findings. It was a Japanese post, so JGSD soldiers were all over the place.
They saluted us, to their mistake, but it was a nice gesture. We saluted back.
There was a café that specialized in Curry
and pasta dishes. The inside looked like an actual restaurant. There was also a
ramen restaurant that was set up like a soup kitchen. Aside from the Japanese
shops that had little Japanese doodads, the Family Mart was the best. It was
like a Japanese convenience store. All kinds of little sushi and noodle dishes
to eat, some hot off the heat lamp. Dale reached for a sushi triangle wrapped
in seaweed. “These,” he said, “are so addicting.”
Despite being restricted, we were stoked at
the things we had at our disposal within the gates.
Prison:
It took about four days of the same shit
before we started getting tired of everything. Within the walls, everything got
old. Fucking shitty ass wifi was the first problem. Army chow got depressing,
especially eating elbow to elbow with a bunch of officers and senior NCOs. I
began tearing up sushi triangles for lunch. We even created a spreadsheet,
recording what each color was. My favorite was the shrimp with mayo.
 |
| Thanksgiving. Line up, nut to butt. |
 |
| Life behind the walls |
 |
| Wish it was this available in the states. |
We ate at the cafes. The curry was all
right but not as crispy as I had hoped. Ramen was the shit though, like 550 Yen
with fried rice, too. But even when we got off work early, there was nothing to
do. It was go back to our cage of a room, wander around the shops, stare at
your phone at the MWR while trying to connect to wifi, or eat.
 |
| The most happening place in town |
I didn’t even have enough privacy to whack
off. Every night I’d round the magazine aisle in the Family Mart. The front
cover had Japanese chicks scantily clad in bikinis. One had gigantic boobs. The
magazines were shut in zip ties so you couldn’t open them unless you bought
them. One night, I pried the pages loose. The pictures were naked drawings of
chicks, a fucking comic book.
Eventually, they opened up Friendship Hall where
we were actually allowed to drink, but we had to do so in uniform, and we were
encouraged to drink with the Japanese soldiers and make friends.
I found myself here many nights out of
boredom. The officers usually got the most torn up. After being surrounded by
sausages within the first half hour, I would recall why I had left Active Army.
I had been over it and I was over this now. Most nights, I had two beers and
left.
 |
| 20 sausages per 1 clam, excellent odds for any soldier |
MWR:
When they allowed us to take passes,
National Guard and Reservists had a special stipulation. We weren’t allowed to
take the train anywhere, still couldn’t drink, and we had to be escorted by a
soldier who was stationed here.
SPC Mos Def felt sorry for us, so he took
us outside the base. I was stoked. Too bad he didn’t like Japanese food either,
so we ended up at KFC.
SPC Hodor took us out another night. Same
with him. We ate at McDonalds.
Although, fast-food quality in Japan is
much better than the states. I’ve never had a double cheeseburger from Mickey
D’s that tasted so good. I mean the patties actually looked fresh.
 |
| Downtown are around Camp Asaka |
I got to take one tour to Shinjuku Tower,
but it was raining. Didn’t get much visibility from the top, but we got to eat
ramen, ride the subway, and do some lightweight shopping. As cold and wet as it
was, it was nice to get off base.
 |
| With a pack of loud Americans. The only way to travel. |
 |
| How'd you like to live here? |
Monday
Night Marauders:
I put my soldier in for an Army Achievement
Medal, and he got the motherfucker. That’s one good thing that I can say I
accomplished this mission, made sure my soldier got an award. The Mayor Cell
Commander told me I’d get a Certificate of Achievement. When the award ceremony
was over, and I stood empty handed, I was later told by a Sergeant First Class
that I’d be getting recognized in front of the Commanding General. The next
day, I heard the applause from the small ceremony going on in the Mayor Cell.
Bastards . . . I didn’t get shit.
The MPs brought us to Yokota where we had
to clear our paperwork for post-mission procedures. Once that was done, we had
the rest of the night to ourselves before flying out the next day.
Having privacy in my hotel room, I jacked
off like three times in a row. Got rid of that duckbutter back up (DBB). And
trust me, internet porn on your phone is a gawd damn luxury.
After two hours, Dale was still knocked
out. I called his room, which was right across from mine, to make sure he was
getting up. He said he’d be ready in fifteen.
At 1700 hours we proceeded out the gate.
Curfew would be at 0100. Exhausted from the day’s events, and being safe not to
end up lost before curfew, we placed our bets on sushi and beer somewhere in
town. It would be a mellow ending to our trip. We could’ve made a right and
ventured inside one of the restaurants, well lit like Tijuana bars, or walk
further into town through the infamous Bar Row. We went straight.
Bar row. . . Signs everywhere, teasing us,
showing the names of their watering holes. All closed on a Monday night. The street
was dark, straight up back-alley status, anal raping mode, where grown men get
turned into little girls. We walked out of the narrow streets and made our way
to downtown Fussa where there were more lights. There was a large store called
Seiyu, pretty much a Japanese Walmart. We walked through there and looked at
some stuff. Japanese girls walked around in short skirts. I guess they don’t
fear the cold. People had their facemasks on. Not sure if they were sick or
didn’t want to get sick. Didn’t find anywhere to eat. Dale found a Starbucks.
Two Japanese chicks two tables down were speaking English but cursing profusely.
Fuck this and fuck that. Fuck in every sentence that they spoke. Not sure what
was up with that.
While
Dale drank his coffee, I walked outside, ventured through the subway station,
and did recon for more places to eat. The menus looked difficult, less American
friendly than Camp Zama.
No
sushi either. The night was looking pretty grim.
The new plan was just to head back towards
post and eat at one of the restaurants in front of the gate. It would be G.I.
heavy, but there would be beer, so fuck it. Beer and dinner was all we really
wanted in the first place. We came upon the Bar Row intersection once more.
“Wanna check it out one more time?” said
Dale.
“Yeah. Why not?”
We were still heading back to base anyway.
Some of the neon lights were on now. In a cut between buildings, we noticed
that the upstairs lights were on, a bar sign in front of it.
 |
| Mad sausages await |
“Wanna go in there?” I said.
Dale looked at it, said nothing at first
but gave in.
We climbed the stairs, heard music as we
got closer to the door, and walked inside. There was a disco ball. Spinning
lights everywhere. The place was a small lounge with seats and tables on one
side and a stereo and bar on the other. A Hispanic dude welcomed us. Not
expected.
 |
| We were the two hawtest guys in there... |
Even though the place was empty, it was
warm. There was a menu. They had beer. It felt good to take our jackets off.
The Hispanic dude sat down with us, ordered us some beer from the waitress, and
said he was a soldier who knew the owner. She was Filipina Peruvian from the
Philippines, and she had her bar open that night to throw a Christmas party for
her friends.
The guy was from Bellflower, CA, so we hit
it off. He told us where to go, where to eat, and where to get a legit massage,
not a shady one.
The owner, a small woman in glasses with
short spiky hair, brought us our drinks and pointed to the food on the counter.
“Get food if you like,” she said.
I grabbed a plate and scavenged off of the
trays of rice, pancit, and lumpia. I didn’t expect Filipino food tonight, but
it was homemade with love. The owner said her name was Mama Lily. When I told
her that I was Filipino and that Dale was half, she treated us as her own.
 |
| I like cool toilets |
Her friends entered, and the place went
from being empty to a karaoke sing off. Dale and I had about three drinks each,
said we’d be back, and left to explore more.
 |
| Just two guys . . . waiting to get raped |
Dale really wanted a massage. When we
couldn’t find the place that Mama Lily had suggested, we found ourselves
underneath another bar sign called Club 7Seven 7Seven. We both looked at each
other, now buzzed, and said fuck it.
 |
| I'm not gay. Really... |
Music blared out from the top of the
stairs. Black light lit the stairwell. We pushed through the double doors, and
a lone woman stood behind the bar, stools lined up in front. The place was
dark, disco ball standard. An empty stripper pole stood in the corner, begging
to be straddled by some butt cheeks. Dale and I sat down, got handed a menu,
and everything was 500 Yen.
On an empty Monday night we really didn’t
give a shit. We were happy now, ripe with alcohol. Free of the prison, free
from leadership and the military (kind of).
 |
| Again, the two hawtest |
The bartender’s name was Aiya, another
Filipina. She was from Manila and now lived just outside of Fussa. After
ordering our drinks, we picked her brain about Japan. She rented a two-bedroom
apartment in Japan for pretty damn cheap. Dale asked about getting a massage,
but she said that they were all shady “happy ending” places.
 |
| Cool bartender. Dorky customer. |
I don’t know how many drinks we had, but
some Americans came in. They were cool as fuck. One of them gave me a Grape
Optimo. It’s never tasted better.
Aiya gave us directions for a Thai
restaurant that’s open until 0600. Dale eyed a hookah on the shelf and said
we’d be back.
Shit gets a little blurry at this point,
but the Thai restaurant was named Jeans. We climbed the stairs, again.
Everything is upstairs and small, and . . . unsuspecting. The inside of Jeans
was like being on a sail boat. There was a wooden boat wheel, all kinds of
pins, license plates, and bar paraphernalia. A long table had six Japanese
dudes fucking up some Thai Food. It was a small bar but the kitchen fit in just
at the end of it. I ordered the tom yum noodle soup and Dale got some fried
rice dish. Fuck, I wanted to take pictures of more shit, but I didn’t want to
look like a fucking tourist. Each dish was 1500 Yen each, midnight prices, but
fuck it. At that point, our Yen was like fucking Monopoly money. We didn’t give
a shit. If anything, we were on a mission to exhaust our Yen.
 |
| An odd variety |
 |
| I think I get the peace sign now. |
During our meal, they gave us two hot
towels to wipe our faces with. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Afterwards,
we did the same route again. Went back to Erica’s Bar where the Karaoke action
was in full swing. Drunk Japanese and Filipino singing at its finest. “We are
the world,” was being sung by a Filipina chick, and she sang each verse
perfectly like the official music video. She looked like Peppermint Patty from
Charlie Brown. I know for sure she got Bruce Springsteen's verse right.
I offered to take pics for them, and then
they wanted to take pics with us.
Dale and I drank some more. Mama Lily
brought out more pancit and lumpia. When the party left, her uncle Ricky was
still chilling with us. He handed me the mic, and I couldn’t help but go Lionel
Richie on them with “Hello.” Then Ricky wanted to do a duet to Spandau Ballet’s
“True.” How could I say no?
 |
| The more I drink, the gayer I become. |
 |
| Really lifted my spirits meeting these cool people. Uncle Ricky to the left and Mama Lily in the middle. |
With the party over, they welcomed us to
hang out longer. Mama Lily kept bringing out the food hot, freshly warmed up
again, but Dale and I had to go. We only had until 0100, and we still had more
rounds to make.
Back at Club 7Seven & 7Seven, there
were more G.I.’s there. Aiya’s homeboy, who might have been Russian, was now
working the bar with her. Some Japanese chicks started showing up.
“The party usually starts around one,” said
Aiya.
Fuckin’ A. The Japanese are some straight
up nocturnal peeps. The Russian put the hookah together, thus refreshing our
buzz again. On alcohol and a massive head rush, Dale and I could only smile at
each other and reflect on the trip.
 |
| When little things like hookah made a huge difference |
“It’s like the two-to-ten theory,” said
Dale.
“What do you mean?”
He took another puff and exhaled an
impenetrable cloud that floated out of his mouth. “Something I read about. Like
if you took a trip to the dentist and had the option of choosing your pain at a
scale from one to ten, say you chose your pain at five the whole time. It would
be mild but bearable. So if we would have been able to go off of post the last
three weeks, we would have been at a ‘five.’”
“Okay,” I said, taking the hookah hose
back. I put my mouth on the piece and inhaled.
“But if you could have chosen level ten
pain for the majority of the time in return for level two pain at the very end,
it would be worth it.”
I nodded.
“So that’s our trip. We were at level ten
the whole time that we were locked down, but right now we’re at level two. We
weren’t able to do shit, but right now,” he reached for the hookah, “it’s
totally fucking worth it.”
Dale. He’s in my unit, not in my detachment
but a fellow soldier who I serve with. A kid, really. We’ve never hung out,
just small talk in the armory. But when he said his thing about the two-to-ten
stuff, it made sense. There we were, having the best time of our trip,
unfortunately the last night. Around us, music blared. Japanese chicks and
American G.I.’s were playing a game of darts together. Aiya, our cool ass
bartender, was drinking with some other guys at the end of the bar. The night
was just starting. Other bars beginning to open, and yet, we were due on base
in forty five minutes. It was already 0015 hours. Sitting there with smoke all
around us, even just from of that one night, I knew that I'd miss him in this
moment and that I’d miss Japan once we left.
Dale found his massage parlor. It wasn’t a
legit place.
 |
| Hate to leave when the party's just starting. 'Til we meet again, Japan... |
We stumbled through the streets on the way
home, forced to piss in an alley. Sorry Japanese members of society, but we
really had to piss. Hungry, we went to 7 Eleven. I bought my last sushi
triangle and some chicken nuggets.
After flashing our military IDs, the
Japanese guards let us in the gate. We laughed all the way back to the hotel. Time
0045.
I said goodnight to Dale and went to my
room. Chowing down on a sushi triangle, I opened up my computer and searched
for Spandau Ballet’s “True” on YouTube.
When we left the next day, it snowed.
 |
| Last one for the road. |
