Today it was rainy. Besides the fact that I actually manage to forget my umbrella everywhere, because under normal circumstances I don't believe in carrying one, I don't mind the rain. In fact, I have come to like the rain in Japan. The morning begins with the sound of drip-drops, and I know, since I can't see the orange sun rising through my east-facing window, that it will be a rainy day. I hit snooze one last time, burrow into my down comforter, fighting against the morning cold, and I stave off the day for 9 more minutes. On days like today, this is increasingly easy, since I didn't have to make the train to Fukuoka city until 11am.
The rain in Japan leaves a very thick, grey fog around the green mountains that draws in me something like a dull ache. It reminds me of being lost in a very deep forest, and playing hide and seek. A kind of innocence and a bit of tragedy seeping in through my wet shoes in a memory I can't recall anymore. In the rainy morning, on the way to Fukuoka city, I am looking out my window, watching the trees and small farms zip by weaving a patchwork quilt of greens and yellows, bodies of water I don't know, rivers, small towns, crouching beneath that rich blanket of rain fog. I feel sometimes as if I could pick the whole thing up and shake it, that maybe, just maybe, all the flakes of snow or glitter would come tumbling down out of the sky.
Today is my dad's birthday, and I have all these small moments throughout my day where he pops into my mind. The green, open countryside of Japan always reminds me of him. I sometimes wonder if he would have that same feeling when he looks at it as I do. But sometimes the thoughts aren't cohesive. I guess, they never are when you love someone. They are just thoughts. When I was little, I thought my dad smelled like coffee out of a metal thermos. His fingers were too thick to thread a bead on a string. He loves surprising people. He would fill a present with dried macaroni just so we could never guess what was inside when we shook it. He used to bring me a Deaf Dog hot chocolate every Saturday after I finished basketball practice. He always insists on Christmas packages being wrapped to perfection. No matter where I am living in the world, he knows what time it is there, and usually what the weather is like. And he has never forgotten to mail me a card on my birthday, and it always seems to magically arrive on the actual day. And, when you move as much as I do... well... that means a lot. There are a few things in this world- the sunrise, the sunset, the tide, (and now, the Japanese train times)- that I trust as much as my dad. I'm letting these thoughts reel all along that sonic track, all within the slurp of my noodle soup, all throughout my meeting, and still...
In the evening, where I started this ramble, I am beside that man sleeping. He sleeps silently and doesn't stir, and I reflect upon the fact that most people in Japan are quite content sleeping in otherwise uncomfortable places. I attribute it to the long hours of monotonous work. It's incredible to me that this even instills in me a kind of respect for Japanese people. They truly do the work that they must, without complaining, without wishing for anything different. And at the end of their ten or twelve hour days, they fall into a sweet sleep on the train, next to a perfect stranger, wedged up against a window.
I'm thinking of this and I'm watching the streaks of rain run down the glass. The rain makes smudge marks of the lights outside. I am watching these smudge marks and they remind me of long drives home from San Francisco in the family car just before Christmas. At some point when I was a little girl we may have gone down to Ghiradelli Square for an ice cream sundae, maybe to Christmas shop, and maybe to see all the Christmas lights. After a long evening that produced that same desire to sleep against the window, I would, on the hour drive home to Petaluma, squint my eyes against the lights outside to let them blur into a sparkly ball. John Lennon's "Happy Xmas (War is Over)" plays in this memory of mine, soft and sweet like a whisper. My brothers are sleeping next to me, and nothing is keeping me from squinting my eyes against all those lights, waiting to see Santa's sleigh.
I am smiling to myself, and this far-removed memory on the sonic. And how two moments can exist so far apart in mind and in reality, and yet, they can in an instant, reveal in me the same moment. How can this moment trigger that one?
As the train moves out of the station, I've a floating sensation. Sonic trains are smooth riding and well-furnished. The seats are leather, the floors are wooden, and the cabins are separated by frosted glass doors that automatically open when you approach them. The doors are silent, and the train hardly makes a sound as it leaves the station. Remarkably enough, my sonic train feels as if it is hovering above Fukuoka city as it leaves Hakata station. Skyscrapers pass silently beside. Streets below glisten in the rain. Cars wait in traffic on those streets. Crossing lights change. And my sonic train just glides right above.
To the right, out of the blue evening sky comes a Shinkansen train. (Just as a side note, a Shinkansen train is the fastest train in Japan. The fastest Shinkansen can go over 300 miles per hour. They are a work of art to watch in motion, moving by magnetic force along the track at insanely fast speeds, and like my sonic, they almost appear to be hovering silently through space. Sonic trains, are maybe the second fastest grade of trains in Japan, going about 100 miles per hour.) So, here we are, coming silently parallel with one of the brand new Shinkansen trains, the fastest train in Japan. The Shinkansen is a pure grey capsule floating along the track. The words "Osaka" are flashing in neon green above the exits. The lights from inside the train emit a soft yellow glow, and I can see people reading the newspaper, looking at their phones, ordering coffee from the steward as she passes. And here we are, these two silent trains, floating seamlessly beside each other over Fukuoka city, buildings passing beside and between us, lights glistening. Walt Disney's monorail has nothing on this ride. It feels like I have actually been transported to some strange robot world in my dreams of the future.
I think of that little girl, in the car home from San Francisco, being dazzled by the lights outside, smiling all to herself in the dark night of California. How many of those moments added up to this one? I watch the Shinkansen veer softly to the right, and follow it through the maze of skyscrapers until it is out of sight. I lean back into my soft leather chair and close my eyes and let the sonic take me home.
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