Is there anything you're planning to do "someday"?

Last May, we traveled to northern Japan. It was an amazing experience, and afterwards we sometimes talked about the possibility of moving there. Then, in October, we decided we would actually do it — "someday".

That "someday" was comforting. No hurries, nothing that needed to be done right then. We had plenty of time to get our affairs in order, save money, and prepare ourselves. We were able to think of ourselves as bold, adventurous people — "We made this momentous decision!" — without having to actually do anything about it.

Just a few days later, a year ago today, everything changed. Life presented us with a crossroads, and forced us to make a choice. It was time to really commit, if we were seriously going to do this.

But what if that hadn't happened? Where would we be today? Would we still be in Maryland, making our plans to move to Japan "someday"? Would that "someday" ever have come?

If we could do something when we had to make a choice, why couldn't we do it without life forcing the issue? What were we waiting for?

What are you waiting for?

"If you're gonna jump, then jump far." ― Natasha Bedingfield, contemporary British philosopher

Having a comfortable life means having a place to stand, and room to maneuver. It means walking around, dodging obstacles, and sitting down with a drink in your hand at the end of the day. It means home, stability, refuge. You might go near the edge, but you don't jump.

But when the ground starts to crumble under your feet, you have two options. You can step back to safety, or you can jump.

One year ago today, we decided to jump.

On Sunday, we took advantage of the fine fall weather to make an excursion on the Kitakami Line. This railroad crosses the central mountains of Japan, traveling between Kitakami and Yokote (in Akita Prefecture). Running along steep hillsides and across mountain valleys, it offers spectacular views — especially in autumn, when the leaves are changing.

In Kitakami, some fall colors are starting to show, but as we ascended it became clear the leaves were much further along in the mountains. Exiting the first tunnel into a mountain valley, the change in view was so startling that everyone on the (somewhat crowded) train gasped.



We were in and out of tunnels most of the way, with plenty of breathtaking scenery in between. Sometimes the colors were brightest on the hillside near the train.



Other times, it was the view across a valley that was spectacular.



At the end of the line, we took a couple of hours to walk around Yokote. Brightly colored trees shared the view with Yokote Castle.



We left Yokote in the early afternoon so we'd have time to stop in Hotto Yuda, an onsen (hot spring) village along the way. There's even an onsen inside the railroad station! The town is on the shores of a mountain lake, in an area justly famous for the turning leaves.



We enjoyed a soak in the spring (more on that later), then returned home, refreshed but exhausted.

Public baths can be daunting to foreigners because of the language barrier and the unwritten etiquette. We visited plenty of public baths during our vacation last year, but I still get nervous about inadvertently breaking one of the rules. And my nascent language skills aren't quite up to the challenge of conversing about the finer points of public bathing. So our Sunday onsen (hot spring bath) visit left me feeling both extra clean and a bit confused.

We know the public bath drill. First, you wash your hair and body at a separate wall of spigots, using a large washcloth. After washing, you can soak as long as you like in the hot baths. Once you're done bathing, you shower off again before returning to the dressing room. It's all very civilized and quite enjoyable after you get past the "roomful of naked people" aspect.

I followed the drill: washing, soaking, contemplating. When I felt adequately onsened, I headed back to the spigots, but my spot near the soap was occupied. No matter. I figured I'd cool off with a soap-free rinse at another spigot. The woman next to me offered me some of soap she had brought. I told her that I was quite daijoubu, but thanks. And then she offered the soap again, with a kind (tolerant?) smile and a "kudasai."

Crap. "Kudasai" always makes me nervous because it's used for requests and I often don't know how to read the request. Did she mean "please, feel free to use my soap"? Or did she mean "No, seriously, it's completely unacceptable to not use soap after bathing. Don't you know the rules?" Not wanting to offend, I gave a very formal thank you and lathered up my oversized washcloth, desperately trying to remember whether I was supposed to use soap after soaking in the bath.

Next time, I'm taking my own soap.

On my way to Japanese class last week, I was stopped at a traffic light. An older woman, hunched over a kind of rolling walker thing, slowly crossed the street as cars waited. She wore the wide-brimmed hat, jacket, and knee-high rubber boots indicative of rice farmers; I presumed her bent posture was the result of years spent working in the paddies. When the light changed and traffic began to move, I caught a glimpse of accelerating white movement out of the corner of my eye. A Yamabiko shinkansen was leaving Kitakami Station, on its way north to Morioka. So it is in Tohoku, frequently described in tourist literature as one of the last remaining places to find "Old Japan." The past and the future collide on a daily basis here.

Closed doughnut shop notwithstanding, Sunday's road trip went off without a hitch. The staff at the Kitakami Mister Donut were kind enough to open a few minutes early (to quote the tape on my pumpkin muffin wrapper: "Thanks, you beautiful people!"). We got our road snacks and set off on our journey to the north.

Matthew has been in touch with a local model railroading group that ran a layout this weekend in Hachinohe, Aomori Prefecture. Aomori-ken is our neighbor to the north; Hachinohe is a mere 2-1/2 hour drive away, on the coast. Fans of our previous road trip stories may be disappointed to learn that the Hachinohe installment of The Road Ahead had none of the prior narrow roads, high curving bridges, ditches, or freakout sessions. In fact, the trip was blissfully peaceful and beautiful, with the mountains beginning to show fall colors in spots. We also got our first look at Iwate-san, the tallest mountain in the prefecture. It's HUGE!

I left Matthew at the Hachinohe City Museum, where the show was being held, and went exploring. The museum is next door to Nejo Plaza, a castle compound built in 1334 by Lord Moroyuki Nanbu. Many buildings within the plaza have been restored, and it's quite fascinating to walk through. Especially the workshops and storage areas, which have thickly thatched rooves made from reeds that hang quite low, such that you have to crouch and duck to get inside (the recordings telling you about the buildings also exhort you to watch your head as you leave). It's interesting to me that many buildings of that era appear to have been constructed from a material much like the adobe used in New Mexico ― a mixture of mud and straw of some sort. I don't have photos because we only have one camera and someone needed it to take photos of trains. Hmph.

With time left before the end of the show, I went downtown to check out more of Hachinohe. To no one's surprise, I found a liquor store. We can't travel without acquiring booze, so I asked after Hachinohe local sake and was given samples from one brewer. According to the liquor store guy, the drier one I preferred was otoko no sake, a "man's sake." Indeed. I assured him that my husband would be drinking it, and went on my merry way, beautiful sake bottle in hand.

After the show, Matthew and I dined on some of the local seafood for which Hachinohe is known (squid sashimi for him, grilled fish for me) and made our way back to Kitakami and the dogs. The dogs seemed kind of miffed that we went off for doughnuts, fish, and adventures without them. They got over it when we fed them.

Overheard in the park today while walking the dogs.

Adorable 3-year-oldish Japanese child looking at Moki: Ookii kuma! (Translation: Big bear!)
Child's amused mom: Inu da, yo. (Translation: That's a dog, actually.)

Incidentally, the big bear decided to eat a couple of green tea bags later in the day without our knowledge. At least he'll have a healthy immune system.

Grr. I'm trying to fight off my third major cold since arriving in Kitakami. At the same time, I'm attempting to reconcile the otherwise healthful effects of living in Japan with more sickness than I can recall having in a four-month period. Matthew hasn't had the same problem, so I can only wonder if there's some Washington component (Red Line? Patio at Les Halles? Irradiated mail?) of my immune system that's lacking.

In many ways, our lifestyles here are healthier than in Maryland, not that we weren't taking care of ourselves there. We're getting plenty of exercise: we ride our bikes most places, and take the dogs on two long walks along the river every day. We have rice and umeboshi or nattou for breakfast most mornings. I've been cooking mostly Japanese food, but no tempura or tonkatsu because we haven't gotten around to figuring out the oil temperature monitor on the cooktop. We eat a lot more tofu, fish, and vegetables, and smaller portions of everything. Consequently, we both have lost quite a bit of weight and are in pretty good shape. Doggies, too.

And yet, with the good diet and exercise, I find myself getting sick on an almost monthly basis. The first cold hit within 48 hours of entering the country, so I think that one can be chalked up to stress. The variable weather may also have something to do with it ― Kitakami is a lot like Albuquerque, with its cool mornings, warm-to-hot days, and cold nights. We've been away from New Mexico for eight years, so we're no longer acclimated to those kinds of temperature shifts. Or the germs are just different here, and I have no immunity to them.

At any rate, I'm armed with a C.C. Lemon (70 lemons worth of Vitamin C in every bottle!) drink, plenty of green tea, and lots of miso soup and seaweed. Shoo, cold!

How to silence a bar in Kitakami: Request funk music.

Matthew and I went out with some friends on Saturday night, and wrapped up our evening at a teeny-tiny bar downtown. It was a divey place known for its huge collection of vinyl, which the bartender was spinning throughout the night. The patrons at the bar seemed to be regulars: they were chatting with the bartender and singing along to Japanese traditional and pop music and American country, classic rock, and pop. The Doobie Brothers even warranted some bar piano.

The bartender ("Nice hige.") offered us the chance to make a request. Sadly, he had no Cutting Crew in his inventory ― 60s and 70s were better decades to choose from. He could, however, fulfill a request for the Commodores (but no "Brick House"?!), and fulfill it he did.

And . . . the bar went silent. Bar patrons looked at each other in befuddlement. We could hear the bartender explaining who was playing, to continued silence. He changed the disc after the song was over, and soon the bar was once again singing along . . . to Hall & Oates.

*sigh* I wonder what would have happened if I'd requested Prince.

I'm in the market for a winter coat. I didn't bring the one I used in Washington because a) it was a mid-calf length wool coat, which would have been too heavy and bulky to pack or ship; and b) it was from about forty pounds ago. So now I'm faced with the short versus long coat conundrum. Long would definitely keep more of me warm during the cold, cold Tohoku winter, but short has significant advantages for the bike traveler.

There is an art to dressing for bike travel. We only have to ride short distances, so it's not worth wearing casual clothes for the trip, then changing into our suits at work. It's suits all the way. So his cuffs don't get caught in the chain, Matthew tucks his pant legs into his socks. I don't wear socks that permit tuckage, so I fold and roll my cuffs up, 1980s pegged acid-wash jeans style. Unfortunately, most of my suits have wide legs, so the tight cuffing makes them balloon out, resulting in a girl on a mountain bike in three-inch heels and MC Hammer pants. Practical, yes. Likely to make People's Best Dressed issue, no.

Which brings us to coats. If you're wearing a long coat, you must carefully gather as much of the back part as you can and stuff it between your butt and the seat, lest it get caught in the tire and either send you flying or get destroyed. It's preferable to do this before you start riding somewhere so that your coattail-stuffing doesn't cause a near collision with a woman carrying a twelve-pack of toilet paper. (Hey, I said we were learning things the hard way.) A short coat, of course, requires none of this folderol and is thus more convenient and practical. You just have to not mind having cold legs. And wind rushing under your coat, making the rest of you cold too.

Decisions, decisions.