Looking Back

Tokyo, Japan
You took your coat off and stood in the rain. You’re always crazy like that. And I watched from my window, always felt like I was outside looking in on you.

Those lyrics from Jewel’s Foolish Games, and the rest of the song, always remind me of high school. I’m listening to my MP3 player right now and right now that is the song that is playing and the reason why I’m writing this. Two months ago, before I left on this trip, I meticulously organized the songs in my player by genres and times in my life such as High School Years, College Years, and Post College Years.

Here in Tokyo, our Asian adventure has reached its climax and now we are in the final moments before boarding that plane bound for home. Because all the other hostels were full, we are staying in a traditional Japanese hotel called a ryokan, and it is like a little dojo. We have to take off our shoes at the front door of the hotel and wear the slippers that were given to us up to the room, and then have to take them off before entering it. The floor of the room looks like it was weaved from straw and smells like a hay field in the summer. There is only minimal furniture. Along one of the walls is a small table with a pair of chopsticks on it accompanied by a hot water thermos for tea, and a round tin filled with rice cakes, a teapot, cups, and tea. Next to the table is a television, but it’s coin operated, (nothing for free in Japan) and takes one hundred yen, or the equivalent of slightly less than a dollar, for an hour of use. Only Japanese-speaking stations, but we watched anyhow. The beds are thin, foam mattresses folded up on the floor. The ceiling is wood paneled with a florescent light fixture hanging down in the center. The white walls have four-inch wide boards running vertically and horizontally forming a cross. One of the walls has a sliding wooden window, but the panes aren’t glass, they’re thin paper. Opening the window reveals the real metal and glass window that actually doesn’t open because it faces a wall outside. Hanging on a hook on the wall are a pair of white, with blue patterned, bathrobes and a matching belt. Like any place we’ve occupied for more than a day, our stuff somehow manages to become strewn about the room. Just outside the room are the toilets and sinks. Downstairs are the traditional bathtubs. On the door is a list of rules, among them: No soap or shampoo in the tub, others have to use the same water; Do not pull the plug and drain the water; Hours of use are 7am to 9am and 5pm to 11pm. The tub, filled with heated water over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, is large enough to fit one Asian comfortably. There’s a shower next to it for washing your hair and body.

Tomorrow we leave for Hawaii where Brad lives and where I will be staying for a while. Last night we celebrated our trip at T.G.I. Friday’s in a youthful area of Tokyo called Shibuya. Tokyo has hundreds, probably more like thousands of authentic Japanese restaurants and eateries, yet we ate at an American establishment. Maybe we found ourselves there because we had sushi for lunch and wanted something else to eat. Maybe it was comfortable and we were thinking of home. Maybe they were having good happy hour specials. Regardless, we found ourselves there eating burgers and fries and talking about our trip and life in general.

The conversational flow began with Brad recalling one of his summer jobs where he worked at a restaurant similar to T.G.I. Friday’s. That topic transitioned into what we used to do during our summers. Then it slowly moved into the days of our youth. We exchanged stories of what summer was like for me in the big city (sarcastically) of Salem where I lived compared to rural life in the country, a few miles outside of Salem, where he grew up.

I told stories about jobless summers when my friends and I would drive an hour east of Salem to a place on the Santiam River known as Northfork. We’d pile into my friend’s Blazer with air mattresses to float the river and coolers filled with food and drinks. With the windows down, we’d listen to Cyndi Lauper, Smashing Pumpkins, Blues Traveler, or Bush. Stopping first at the cement bridge, we’d jump into the frigid Santiam where there was usually a crowd waiting to take the leap also. Then we’d continue on to Elkhorn, the steel bridge (my initials are probably still etched on one of the trusses), and finally we’d end up at Three Pools where we’d jump off the rocks and lay out in the sun with our other friends that were there. On the way home we’d swing by the Swiss Village to get ice cream cones. Once back in town we’d grab a burger, fries, and an Orange Bang at Bob’s Burgers.

The warm summer evenings were spent hanging out at his parent’s house. They owned a grocery store so they always had food on hand. They also had a pool table. We’d watch movies, play pool, shoot hoops, relax in the hot tub, or lay on the trampoline and gaze at the stars and talk about who knows what. Girls most likely. Beyond his house was a huge pasture locally known as Farmer’s Field. I don’t think a farmer actually owned it, possibly back in the day. Rumor had it that a couple of doctors from California held the deed. The field began with an orchard on a hill and sloped down into a gully. Kids from around that neighborhood would camp out there quite frequently. Every now and again I would too.

Memories of high school crushes came up and I told stories about how I liked this girl and would go over to her house to hang out. We’d walk down the street to McKinley Elementary School where we’d sit in the playground filled with woodchips on a large tractor tire and talk about who knows what. Definitely not girls. Sometimes we’d sneak onto the roof of the school by scaling a wall and climbing up some other pipes. Once up there, a view of Salem could be seen to the north and, on a clear night, lights from Stayton, Aumsville, and Silverton were also visible. She introduced me to making a wish when the clock read 12:34, am or pm. I still make that wish from time to time.

Stories and memories continued on as we continued on down the crowded roads to the Shibuya Station and caught a train back to Gotanda, and the ryokan, our dojo.

Maybe it was the re-living of those memories from last night that made me choose music from the High School Years genre. I think I just wanted to reflect on the good times I had.

Still in the clothes from last night and in dire need of a shower, which aren’t open at the moment, I sit on my mattress, well beyond noon, and scribble in this journal and listen to the music of my past. Each song evokes a memory and a person. There are songs for everyone: Adam, Kyle, Ryan, Kate, Sarah, Henry, Andy, Chris, Scott, Matt, Ali, Lisa, Jaren, Erica and others too numerous to mention.

Last night Brad and I reminisced on the good times and memories from high school and our youth. I don’t look upon them as the Golden Years because there were plenty of good times beyond my teens, like these last few weeks. I don’t think that there should ever be a period in life called the Golden Years. The exact period of time that one is in right now should be called the Golden Moment and that moment should follow them on forever. One should never want to be anywhere but in the right here and now.

An idea that’s maybe too optimistic, even for me sometimes.

Maybe it was appropriate to have those thoughts last night and arrive at those conclusions. If for nothing else, then to remind myself that my home is not the mid-90s, it’s right now. And when I get to San Diego and realities of the real world hit me like a fist to the chest, I’ll need to re-read this and realize that though places like the Farmer’s Field are still there, the jobless summers aren’t. The friendships aren’t what they used to be. My friends got jobs, got married, had kids. They moved around the city, state, and country, just like me. The bands we listened to have broken up or disappeared. Bob’s went out of business and was torn down.

But a new generation is at Northfork, new bands have replaced the old ones, and new memories are now associated with them. Though the friendships may not be like they once were, they are still my friends. And though I’m a thousand miles away from them, they’re still in my head and heart.

This is the conclusion of two trips: one from Asia and one down memory lane.

Endings only mean beginnings. My Golden Moment is now.