on an operating table in dire need of a pancreas while his doctor was talking to me, but what the hell. It was a ride. I climbed in.
He handed me a business card. “I am Mr. Yamagawa. I am the mayor of Ipponmatsu Town. I am very sorry.”
Cool. A mayor. I asked him if I was on the right road to Uwajima City and he shook his head. This didn’t surprise me in the least. I am the world’s worst scout. Had I been leading the pioneers in Westward Ho! we’d still be circling somewhere around Pittsburgh. I have gotten lost in elevators. You could almost use me as a “negative-example” navigator; just watch where I go and then chart a course along the exact opposite direction and you’d probably do just fine. How I ever became a travel writer is beyond me.
“Do not worry,” said Mr. Yamagawa. “I will take you to Uwajima City. Don’t you have a car? You should have a car. Please call my office tomorrow and we will arrange a vehicle for you.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. After all, a car is a car, but in the end my better nature wouldn’t allow me to accept the offer. That, and the fact that I don’t have a Japanese driver’s license.
“Would you like something cold to drink?” He drove over a hill to a row of roadside vending machines and, with a quick, “Please wait here,” jumped out and ran across the highway, leaving me—a complete stranger—alone in his car with the keys in the ignition and the motor running. Such trust, such naiveté. I briefly considered a number of pranks I could play, but decided against them in the interest of international harmony. He returned a few minutes later with two cans of Kirin beer and a bag of peanuts. “Please, please,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
We were soon back on the coast, riding high above the ocean under a polished blue sky. Fishing villages were cluttered in the coves below us like jumbled driftwood washed in above the high-tide mark. Seawalls jutted out protectively. Fishing boats, tethered to docks, rose and fell on the swell of waves. There were even a few cherry trees, encircled by bands of petals that had fallen around them. But it was nowhere as impressive as the sakura I had traveled through in Miyazaki.
Mr. Yamagawa was very accommodating. “You want to see sakura? That is not a problem. We have a scenic route we call the Cherry Blossom Road. I’ll take you through it.” He turned onto a side road and the car climbed through forests, up to a ridge of mountain and then—suddenly—cherry blossoms burst upon us on either side, the petals scattering across the windshield. It was like driving through a tunnel of flowers. Above us, the overhang of flowers met in an honor guard of spring, a triumphal arch in white and pink.
“I’m going to travel with the sakura all the way to Hokkaido,” I said.
He laughed. “You want to leave Ipponmatsu Town?”
“I’ve never been to Ipponmatsu Town. I’m following the cherry blossoms.”
“But what about soccer?”
“Soccer?”
“Yes, soccer. How do you like Japanese-style soccer? Is it different from England?”
He and I seemed to be reading from different scripts. “Well,“ I said, “I don’t really care for soccer. It’s too slow. I prefer ice hockey. And sumo. If you could just combine the two it would be great: Sumo on skates. I’d pay good money to see that.”
“Ha!” he slapped his dashboard from the sheer mirth of it. “You don’t like soccer. English humor. Very funny.”
“I’m not English.“
“Oh, you are Brazilian then? How do you like Japanese soccer?”
I was completely lost at this point. First he wanted to give me a car, now he wanted to discuss Brazilian soccer techniques.
He handed me a small pad and pulled down his mask for the first time. “Do you think,” he said with sudden humility. “I mean, do you mind? Would you sign your autograph? For my son. His name is Kentaro. He loves the Grampus Eight.”
“Grampus Eight?”
“We are very honored
He handed me a business card. “I am Mr. Yamagawa. I am the mayor of Ipponmatsu Town. I am very sorry.”
Cool. A mayor. I asked him if I was on the right road to Uwajima City and he shook his head. This didn’t surprise me in the least. I am the world’s worst scout. Had I been leading the pioneers in Westward Ho! we’d still be circling somewhere around Pittsburgh. I have gotten lost in elevators. You could almost use me as a “negative-example” navigator; just watch where I go and then chart a course along the exact opposite direction and you’d probably do just fine. How I ever became a travel writer is beyond me.
“Do not worry,” said Mr. Yamagawa. “I will take you to Uwajima City. Don’t you have a car? You should have a car. Please call my office tomorrow and we will arrange a vehicle for you.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. After all, a car is a car, but in the end my better nature wouldn’t allow me to accept the offer. That, and the fact that I don’t have a Japanese driver’s license.
“Would you like something cold to drink?” He drove over a hill to a row of roadside vending machines and, with a quick, “Please wait here,” jumped out and ran across the highway, leaving me—a complete stranger—alone in his car with the keys in the ignition and the motor running. Such trust, such naiveté. I briefly considered a number of pranks I could play, but decided against them in the interest of international harmony. He returned a few minutes later with two cans of Kirin beer and a bag of peanuts. “Please, please,” he said. “I am very sorry.”
We were soon back on the coast, riding high above the ocean under a polished blue sky. Fishing villages were cluttered in the coves below us like jumbled driftwood washed in above the high-tide mark. Seawalls jutted out protectively. Fishing boats, tethered to docks, rose and fell on the swell of waves. There were even a few cherry trees, encircled by bands of petals that had fallen around them. But it was nowhere as impressive as the sakura I had traveled through in Miyazaki.
Mr. Yamagawa was very accommodating. “You want to see sakura? That is not a problem. We have a scenic route we call the Cherry Blossom Road. I’ll take you through it.” He turned onto a side road and the car climbed through forests, up to a ridge of mountain and then—suddenly—cherry blossoms burst upon us on either side, the petals scattering across the windshield. It was like driving through a tunnel of flowers. Above us, the overhang of flowers met in an honor guard of spring, a triumphal arch in white and pink.
“I’m going to travel with the sakura all the way to Hokkaido,” I said.
He laughed. “You want to leave Ipponmatsu Town?”
“I’ve never been to Ipponmatsu Town. I’m following the cherry blossoms.”
“But what about soccer?”
“Soccer?”
“Yes, soccer. How do you like Japanese-style soccer? Is it different from England?”
He and I seemed to be reading from different scripts. “Well,“ I said, “I don’t really care for soccer. It’s too slow. I prefer ice hockey. And sumo. If you could just combine the two it would be great: Sumo on skates. I’d pay good money to see that.”
“Ha!” he slapped his dashboard from the sheer mirth of it. “You don’t like soccer. English humor. Very funny.”
“I’m not English.“
“Oh, you are Brazilian then? How do you like Japanese soccer?”
I was completely lost at this point. First he wanted to give me a car, now he wanted to discuss Brazilian soccer techniques.
He handed me a small pad and pulled down his mask for the first time. “Do you think,” he said with sudden humility. “I mean, do you mind? Would you sign your autograph? For my son. His name is Kentaro. He loves the Grampus Eight.”
“Grampus Eight?”
“We are very honored
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