PRE-JAPAN SESSION (and Japan), SAT 22NOV2014

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 26^th, 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.