Gangnam, Mongolia, and the Grand Canyon

It's the witching hour here in Seoul, and it's time for some updates. This blog's been clogged (see what I did there?) with my Japan junket and The Art of Manliness challenge I took in January. Time to give you the skinny on the others facets of my life.

THE BIG MOVE TO GANGNAM
Miss H and I started packing tonight. The bookshelf is completely empty, the dresser (which we use for miscellaneous storage, cramming all of our clothes into our wardrobes) is 80% done, and the games drawer has been packed up. The entirety of the kitchen, the wardrobes, the veranda and the bathroom remain, however. Both of us are remembering how much we hate packing. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Why are we moving to Gangnam? Well, Miss H was justifiably discontent with her job here in Gwangnaru, so she elected to switch jobs at the completion of her contract in late February. The new job she found was with Gangnam SLP, in Gangnam-gu. Gu, if you'll recall, is a word roughly analogous to "borough" or "district" or "ward" in English. Seoul has 25 of these gu. We live in Gwangnaru, which is located in Gwangjang-dong, a neighborhood of Gwangjin-gu, widely regarded to be the city's most multifarious ward. Now, however, we'll be moving to Gangnam-gu, which is noticeably larger and more oblong than Gwangjin-gu. As far as I can tell, Miss H's school and our apartment are located at the extreme southern edge, in the neighborhood of Irwon-dong near Daecheong Station on Seoul Metro Line 3. The boonies, as it were. Go any farther south and you're not in Seoul anymore, Toto. We will, however, be deliciously close to the glitzy Gangnam Boulevard, and the attractive neighborhood of Sinnonhyeon beyond—the same place I bought a copy of Kafka's Metamorphosis and read it in one go while sitting in a coffee shop in the Urban Hive, remember? There's also Yangjae Citizen's Forest, which I already know and love (and am planning some kick-ass summer barbecues around). We're right next door to Jamsil, with its humongous (albeit undergoing renovations) COEX Mall, and the Jamsil Sports Complex where all the best baseball games are played. It'll be a cinch to slide over to ritzy Apgujeong or across the river to Ttukseom Resort, too. Location, location, location. 

But first we gotta move there. So we're packing. We move in on the 1st of March. We're not using a moving service with a Kia Bongo like we did last time. He showed up at our old place in Bucheon at 8:00 at night and by the time we were all moved in to the new place in Gwangnaru it was midnight. We want to make it quick and easy this time. So I'll be obtaining a temporary international driver's license and renting a car. Preferably an SUV or at least a crossover—something with some cargo space. Then I'll drive our stuff to the new apartment in Irwon-dong myself. It'll be the first time I've ever driven Korea, or any foreign country for that matter. I'm heading to the DLA (Driver's License Authority) in Mapo-gu tomorrow to obtain a temporary license. I may have to take a test. Wish me luck. 

SPRING SEMESTER AT SEJONG UNIVERSITY
The pre-semester staff meeting is February 24th. I like my new schedule: on Mondays and Fridays I start at 11 and have two classes, finishing up at one o'clock. Tuesdays and Thursdays are the heavy days: 9:00 a.m. - 5:20 p.m., with a few breaks here and there. On Wednesdays, like usual, I have no class at all. I have a new type of class this time around: a combined reading/listening class that affords me some degree of freedom with resources and materials. I'm very much looking forward to selecting the best passages and audio clips to give the students the most effective (and fun) time possible. My commute will be longer, of course, but finding out the quickest way from Irwon-dong to the university (which is in the Neung-dong neighborhood of Gwangjin-gu) is going to be an adventure. 

What I'm not looking forward to, though, is getting my visa extended. This is always a hassle. It requires an entire day, a ton of paperwork, and a great honking trip into Yangcheon-gu in West Seoul to the main immigration office—and that's if everything goes smoothly. If the immigration officer decides that he needs to see some extraneous document that wasn't included on the official list, he can do so—and send you away until you acquire it. Sometimes one must make two or three trips to immigration to get everything sorted. That's the other thing I'm doing tomorrow besides hitting the DLA: renewing my visa. I called immigration twice and asked them the same question: what documents do I need? The answers tally, and I think I've got everything prepared. Let's hope I only need to make one trip. 

FLYING
Nothing doing. I'm in Korea, remember? Though I have figured out what I'll do about flight training when I return to the States. It looks like Miss H and I might wind up in Las Vegas, Nevada, when all is said and done. That's assuming we find jobs and cheap housing, but this locale is the most likely spot we've run across. Imagining that all goes as planned, we'll be living in Vegas, Miss H will be doing social work, and I'll be doing radio and bartending. On the side, I'll be working toward my commercial pilot's license. Once I get that (plus a few other ratings like high-performance and multi-engine and perhaps even instrument) I'll start applying to the companies that do flight-seeing tours over the Grand Canyon. I'd kill to fly a de Havilland Canada DHC-6 Twin Otter over that humongous scar in the earth. 

BOOZE
When was the last cocktail review I did? Halloween, probably. Things went nuts toward the end of the fall semester last year, and then the holidays hit, and then January was taken up with that challenge, and early February was my trip to Hokkaido. So...yeah. No booze. I'll probably restart my review schedule sometime in late March. Gotta wait for the dust to settle from the Big Move and the Spring Semester. 

On the home-brew front, the boys and I just bought a huge bulk order of malt extracts and yeasts and hops which we can play around with. But we'll get to that in a few weeks. For now we're just enjoying the amazing American pale ale we brewed up in December. We've discovered that adding an extra little bit of priming sugar to the brew just before bottling creates the perfect amount of carbonation. There's no fixing the sediment problem (not without secondary fermentation, which none of us have been brave/industrious enough to try yet), so all we have to fix now is the color and clarity. Oh, and the flavor. The last two batches have been spot-on, though, so I have high hopes for our next brew: a maple porter, my pick. I'm scanning the Interwebs for a suitable partial extract recipe. Let me know if you have any suggestions, dear readers. 

And speaking of reading...

READING
I hung up The Great Shark Hunt (Hunter S. Thompson). I'll keep it and read it later and put it up on the shelf and it'll look all groovy and sophisticated to passersby. I have other fish to fry, though. During the long train journey down through Japan I finished reading Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star and The Terror by Dan Simmons. Good reads both, though I found Simmons's work a bit more stimulating (probably for this reason). I'm almost to Part Four of Anna Karenina, and have finally begun to enjoy it. Tolstoy knows a lot about human beings and can describe what he knows simply and clearly. After I finish this weighty volume I reckon it's either Robinson Crusoe or The Catcher in the Rye next. I need to get back into fiction badly.

And speaking of getting back into fiction...

WRITING
Still no word from Ace & Roc Science Fiction and Fantasy about my novel manuscript. I sent it to them, did I tell you? (I told Facebook, but I don't know if I've told you.) I sent them a query e-mail with the first ten pages of my manuscript copied-and-pasted into the body, as per their submission guidelines. Ace & Roc are imprints of Penguin Books, in case you were wondering. I chose them because I read somewhere that Cormac McCarthy sent his first novel (The Orchard Keeper) to Random House because it was the only publisher he had heard of. And they published it. Miracles do happen. I'm holding out for mine. I submitted the e-mail on January 29th, and Penguin's website warned me that manuscript queries can take up to five months to garner a response. So I'm waiting and praying and shopping for agents, just to be on the safe side.

On the writing front, Novel #3 is a chapter and a half from being done. There's a lot of edits to do but I'll mow 'em down fast. Novel #4 is still where I left it when my computer died last November. I must revisit it soon. I'm also going to crank out some more short fiction just as soon as the heat from the Big Move and the Spring Semester blows over. I'm slogging through Mugunghwa (my old NaNoWriMo project from two years ago) and making adjustments, corrections and clarifications to that as well. It should be ready to go by spring. I'm not sure whether to e-publish it or send it to an agent, but I'm mulling the question over. 

I really need to get some more pipe tobacco. I should do the whole mulling thing properly.

TRAVEL PLANS
Well, I've done Japan, Korea and China. That's the extent of my Asian travels. Bit paltry for almost three years, right? So it's time to up the ante. Miss J, Miss H and I have been talking about Mongolia. Buddha's Birthday and Children's Day are right next to each other on the first weekend of May this year. That means there's a four-day weekend coming up in mid-spring. Flights are cheap. Perfect time to hit the steppes, we reckon. We're thinking a nice hotel in Ulaanbaatar, a ride on a Bactrian camel, a traditional meal with a Mongolian family in their private yurt, watching the Kazakh falconers do their thing, a pony roundup on the open steppes and a bite of the finest Mongolian cuisine. I'll let you know as events develop. I'm still planning on Alaska this summer, and would love to do a train trip through Argentina and Chile if finances allow. Stay tuned. 

LIFE IN GENERAL 
I haven't been to the gym in weeks. In fact, I'm about to head down there and cancel our membership, and see if there's any sort of refund possible. Miss H and I didn't realize when we signed up in October that we'd miss a full third of our six-month subscription to Art Gym when her contract expired. If they won't give us a refund, then we've forfeited ₩80,000 apiece. Darn. At least we know now how much of a time commitment we're making when we sign up with a gym. 

The winter weather in Seoul remains pleasantly mild, with temperatures hovering around the low 40s and nary a snowball or an icicle in sight. The yellow dust from China, however, is kicking into gear. I'd love to be walking around in the open air and taking in my last views of scenic Gwangjin-gu, but there's a jaundiced scum in the air and it irritates my lungs and throat something fierce. I can't be bothered to wear a mask, either. So screw it. I'll stay inside and play the Facebook version of Deer Hunter 2014. 

SCI-FI ART
I haven't given you any of that in a while, either. And since every blog post (no matter how small) needs a picture, I give you this doozy. Make of it what you will: 

Hokkaido diary: a weekend in Busan

2/8: 

11:30 a.m. This'll be the last entry. Meant to write it last night, but a lot of stuff happened.

Landing and disembarking [from the New Camellia] were a breeze. I'm getting to be an old pro at this. Out the hatch, down the ramp, along the skyways, through immigration and customs, out the doors to the ₩1000 Busan Station bus, and through traffic to the station. I stashed my stuff in lockers, grabbed a snack (odeng and ddeokbokki, ₩4000) and spent the next three hours flailing around the area of Nampo, Jungang and the station trying to find a hotel. Busan Tourist Hotel was cheap, but the rooms were old and shabby and reeked of secondhand smoke. Tower Hill Inn, a hundred yards away (so named because it sits at the foot of Busan Tower in Nampo-dong) was way too expensive—₩220,000 per night. I settled on the Tokoyo Inn—cheaper, cleaner, brighter, and near the station. Then I met Adam and his girlfriend Stacey for wang galbi and beer and soju. Adam is reading my novel manuscript. He described it to Stacey and it was like watching a machine I'd built start up and go for the first time. It was wonderful. Stacey expressed interest, and Adam did nothing but praise me (he always does that). I walked out of there with my head the size of a Buick. 

Then I grabbed Miss H at the station, took her to the hotel, and we both passed out. Now we're up and around, getting ready to see the tower, the park beneath it, Nampo Shopping Street, and just make a day of it. Postie out. 

THE END

And so it came to pass that Miss H and I enjoyed a wonderful weekend in Busan. On Saturday we shopped, ate and drank to our hearts' content, toured Yongdusan Park and Busan Tower (pictured above), had dinner with our lovely friend Jenn (congratulations on your recent engagement!) and sped home on the KTX on Sunday happy and fulfilled. 

The view south from Busan Tower, looking over the fishing fleets in the portion of the harbor west of Mount Bongrae.

And now I'm back in Seoul, taking walks, exploring the city, reading, writing, and frantically trying to extend my visa, switch my status from E-2 (foreign instructor) to E-1 (foreign professor), notify the immigration authorities of my impending change of address, head to the Driver's License Authority to get a temporary international driver's license so Miss H and I can rent a car and move our stuff from our apartment in Gwangnaru to our new two-bedroom apartment in...

...drum roll, please...

...GANGNAM!

Hokkaido diary: the Camellia Line to Busan

2/7:

6:54 a.m. The Kodama 857 leaves at 7:11 a.m. for Hakata. I didn't even bother getting a ticket this time. I'll just sit in one of the non-reserved cars (1-4, 7, or 8). The only thing a ticket would have told me is what time the train arrives in Hakata. 

Last night was certainly the low point of the trip. Just before midnight I stepped out of Shin-Yamaguchi Station. I noticed three things. One, everything was slick and spit-shiny with recent rain. Two, there were hotels everywhere. Three, it was COLD—not the relentless 0-degree chill of Sapporo, but something worse—a creeping, drafty, moist cold that seeped through my clothes—every layer—and into my bones. 

The station was closed from midnight to 4:40 a.m. (4:40 - 0:00, the sign said, showing the Japanese trend of reading right-to-left and the NE Asian one of using military time.) There were no Internet cafés. There was one izakaya, but it was only open until the three and you had to take your shoes off. The first train to Hakata didn't leave until 6:27 a.m. So I started checking hotels. The Hotel Active, Hotel Amuze and Toyoko Inn were all full. I didn't even bother with Yamaguchi Station Grand Hotel—looked way too rich for my blood. I walked a bit further west and saw a familiar sign blinking at me in the distance—McDonald's! Lame to spend six-and-a-half hours there in a foreign country but any port in a storm. Stepping through puddles I made my way up to the door. It was locked. A sign on the door said something about the place being closed between midnight and 5 a.m., despite the big garish sign out front advertising "24H OPEN." 

I made a semicircle about the southern entrance of the station, looking for an Internet café or a comfy place to park my ass and finding none. I wandered the silent, dark, empty streets. I had just finished reading Theroux's Ghost Train in which, as the title suggests, he compares himself to a ghost, traveling unseen. I now felt the same way, like a lonely ghost seeking a warm building to haunt. I settled on a convenience store with tables and chairs inside—no wi-fi but at least light, warmth, and nourishment—but when I'd finished buying snacks I saw that a chain barrier had been strung around the tables and chairs, invisible from outside. Demoralized, I sat on the steps of the dark Japanese restaurant next to the Hotel Active and ate, watching a lone cab sit fruitlessly in front of the station. It was cold and the frigid tiles beneath me wicked all the heat away from my body. I drank the warm coffee I'd bought (not knowing why I'd bought it) and was on the point of heading into the izakaya when I saw a pedestrian bridge sneaking under the tracks. I took it. It was stark and bleak with high chain-link fences acting as suicide prevention. It could have been the setting for any hard-boiled Japanese crime novel or film, especially on this cold, damp night, steam flying from the actor's mouths whenever the [sic] speak. Beyond the bridge were three more hotels. I picked the shabbiest, oldest-looking of them all and got a quote—¥5,500 yen. A bit steep, but worth getting out of the weather. I paid up and went to my single smoke-scented room, tearing off my clothes and collapsing into bed. It was one-fifteen in the morning. 

Here's where that hot can of coffee I'd drunk began to bite me in the ass. 

In the end I was SO tired and So desperate for a rest that my brain overrode the buzzing caffeine and went to sleep anyway. The bed was the softest, most comfortable one I'd slept in (apart from the Karasuma Hotel in Kyoto). 

I woke up at 6:30 (let myself sleep in a bit), washed my hair, threw on my clothes and skipped out. The sky was dark purple, illuminating the jagged, silver-edged, pine-clad hills surrounding the town, as well as more of its ugly buildings and jumbled streets and alleys—rather like Korea, especially under overcast. I could see my breath. The hills had received a light dusting of snow. The damp spots on the pavement had turned to black ice. I hurried to the station, flashed my pass at the agent, and arrived on platform 12 in time to see the 6:49 for Hakata pulling away from me. I felt a bit mad at myself. I had a ship to catch. Dawn was coming and this ghost needed to flee. Should have woken up earlier. 

Oh well. The time is now 7:35 and we've passed Asa and Shimonoseki. I'll be there in time. I think we just entered the tunnel to Kyushu. 

7:50 a.m. Definitely on Kyushu now. Next stop is Hakata. I'd forgotten how pretty this place was, even under gray skies—lofty green mountains wreathed in fluffy cloud boas, everything looking moist and damp, even the people and their tiny houses with multicolored tile roofs. Like Jeju Island, but roomier. 

8:26 a.m. Eating another breakfast sandwich in another McDonald's in Japan. Excessive? Well, you can't beat the availability—or the price. I don't much feel like paying ¥500 for a bowl of ramen this morning. 

The train pulled into Hakata just before 8. I crossed the road and headed to the bus stop to check what bus I need—88, it seems. That rings a bell. I'll just stop at a combini (convenience store) to grab supplies for the six-hour Camellia Line ferry ride and then I'll head for the port. 

9:26 a.m. At the ferry terminal. I must be getting tired. I put my ¥500 coin into the change slot (instead of the fare hopper) and thought I'd paid. The bus driver had to hold me up and pluck the coins (¥220) from my open and clueless hand. 

I decided to skip buying snacks. The terminal has shops, and the ferry I'm taking is so huge that they'll have convenience stores and even a few noodle shops aboard. I'll probably be sleeping the whole time anyway. Already bought my ¥500 terminal use ticket (what a racket) and my ferry fare is prepaid ($90) so now I'll just have to pay the fuel surcharge at the check-in desk and head upstairs to the departure lounge...when the check-in desk opens at 11:00, that is. 

10:32 a.m. Checked in. Much smoother this time now that I know what to do. Fuel surcharge was only ¥1,200—barely more than $11.40! (Check my math.) The Camellia Line is six hours in duration but man, the price is right. I'm now sitting in the exact same terminal (2F) on the exact same gate (11) which I took last time. Only difference is that I took the JR Beetle, a Boeing 929 Jetfoil that reaches Busan in 2.5 hours, and it was summer and the weather was hot, muggy and sunny. Now it's cold and rainy and I'm eating the last of my Sapporo Beer Crackers and am anxious to be away. Exchanged money and got ₩188,000 back. 

The New Camellia car ferry. From Wikimedia Commons.

11:46 a.m. 24 kilometers per hour, 522 people and 20,000 tonnes. That's how much this vessel steams, holds, and weighs. The whole damn ship smells like piss, except the lavatories—they're fresh and clean. I'm in Room 439 on Deck 4. This being a ferry between Korea and Japan, there are no berths—just 10 alcoves with space to stick small bags, valuables, and hang coats. We'll lay out pads, lay our heads on the brick-shaped green vinyl pillows, pull a thin comforter over us, and snooze the crossing away on the brown-carpeted floor. Our shoes are in the requisite compartmentalized shoe-cubby seen in all the more civilized restaurants, bars and houses. Looks like there's six of us so far. I'm the only foreigner. The deck and rail are visible outside the porthole, and the roof of the ferry terminal with its enormous trombone-shaped glass canopies, and the dreary town of Fukuoka sitting sullen under the wind and drizzle. My iPod is charging. I trust Koreans enough not to molest it in my presence (it's 3 cubbies away from me). Almost 12 now and we'll be leaving in 30 minutes. I hope I sleep the whole way. 

 

 

Final glimpse of Japan.

  1:32 p.m. Trying to sleep, but I can only manage a light doze. It's hard to believe those whitecaps out there could make this big ol' boat rock 'n' roll so much. I'm not sick—never been seasick except that one time in 2008—but I just can't get used to the swaying, rollicking motion. It's like trying to sleep on a camel's back—moving and yawing and pitching and rolling on 3 axes. It doesn't help that the lights in here are all on, the TV is blaring softly (inexplicably showing the 2010 Olympics on SBS) and this ship is warping and twisting so much that the portholes and bulkheads are making clicking, snapping, creaking noises. I tried the light switch, but it either doesn't work or it isn't a light switch. I'd put in earplugs but I want to hear an abandon ship order if there is one. Best I can do is pull my hoodie over my eyes, pretend I'm in a howdah on an elephant's back in India, and pray the next 4 hours fly by like the howling wind outside. 

3:00 p.m. No such luck. Still can't get to sleep. My iPod is charged though, so I sneaked off to one of the lounges—by the staircase on Deck 5—to watch the rollers and troughs and crests. The sea is gunmetal grey as far as the eye can see, with streaks and flashes of white everywhere. The sky looks like old snow. Hard to believe wind and temperature and currents can create such force. This is like being in a big honking Winnebago going up and down hummocky hills. Still not sick, but I think my stomach believes I should be by rights, and is making inroads. We'll hit a big hillocky wave and go up, up, up...but what goes up must come down, and down we go with a gut-wrenching drop and what must surely be a huge gout of white spray. That in itself wouldn't be too bad, except that the waves are coming at us on the perpendicular, so as we rise and fall, we're also rocking from side to side (why I compared it to a camel's gait, actually). The fun part is—apart from staggering drunkenly down corridors, floating down staircases, and watching the great swells rise and fall as over the backs of unseen Leviathans—is that it's still drizzling outside and there are several pearlescent drips clinging to the railings just beyond my porthole. As the ship rises and falls, these droplets slide back and forth on the undersides of the rails, looking for all the world like bubbles in a carpenter's level. 

I think I'll step outside, get a breath of fresh air, and try to find the observation deck (up top somewhere, probably). 

3:39 p.m. As I figured—the doors to the outside deck are locked tight. Makes sense. They wouldn't let anybody go outside in these seas. No more of these rough winter crossings for me. Can see land to the west—must be Tsushima. Means we're getting there. 

5:07 p.m. Land ho!

I went back to my cabin and slept for a while. That beat back the impending nausea. I woke to see several cargo ships and the gray-green mountainous shores of K-Land in the distance. I also saw the JR Beetle passing us. He left two hours after we did—no surprise the little hydrofoil caught up—but he must have had to slow down due to the conditions. Looks like he's getting jounced around out there plenty. 

And so ends February 7th. There's one correction I should like to make: the New Camellia did indeed have berths with bunks, but they were in the first-class cabins. My paltry second-class cabin had the accommodations depicted above. 

Tune in tomorrow for the final chapter of my Hokkaido diary. 

Hokkaido diary: Sapporo to Yamaguchi

Don't know where Yamaguchi is? Don't sweat it: I didn't either until February 6th of this year. Here's a little map for you.

And here's my diary entry for that day:

2/6:

5:23 a.m. Well, shoot. I thought I was being clever. Up at 4, at the station by opening time—5:15. I checked if the subway was open, but no dice. Ah well—it was only a 15-min. walk and there was no wind and the stars were out and it was sort of sexy, sneaking to the station in the predawn blackness. On the way I saw bonsai trees in people's yards, bedecked with a network of ropes to keep the slender branches from snapping under the weight of the snow. I saw great machines scooping up the enormous heaps of snow on the curbs and vomiting it into waiting dump trucks with a keening roar. In the dark, with their garish lights wreathed in snowy dust, they seemed like monstrous creatures locked in some kind of ponderous symbiosis. 

Normally-busy Sapporo Station, a ghost town at 5:15 a.m.

I got to the station to find that the ticket counter doesn't open until 5:40 and the first train for Hakodate doesn't leave until 7:00. So much for being clever. At this rate I won't reach Shin-Aomori until lunchtime. No wonder Google Maps said I'd reach Fukuoka at midnight tonight...

Statue of an Ainu man in Sapporo Station.

5:48 p.m. As I suspected—and I should have known—one cannot trust Google Maps in matters of foreign rail timetables. The fact that the earliest departure for Hakodate is 7:00 is the fatal flaw in my plan. The farthest I can go today is Shin (New) Yamaguchi. Granted, that's only 40 minutes from Hakata, but even so...here is my schedule. 

     Sapporo → Hakodate
     (7:00)           (10:31)                 Super-Hokuto 2

     Hakodate → Shin-Aomori
     (11:19)           (1:29 p.m.)        Hakucho 28

     Shin-Aomori → Tokyo
     (1:42)                (5:08)           Hayate 36

     Tokyo → Shin-Osaka
     (5:33)       (8:26)                       Hikari 523

     Shin-Osaka → Okayama     
     (8:40)                (9:52)            Kodama 765

     Okayama → Shin-Yamaguchi
     (9:55)             (11:48)              Kodama 767

Darn, lots of transfers. And I really don't like that I have only three minutes at Okayama to transfer. What if my train's delayed? Ah well—part of the adventure of it all, I guess. Just like where I'll sleep—or if I'll sleep at all—in Yamaguchi until the next morning's ride to Fukuoka. At least it'll be warmer down there. 

10:40 a.m. Just alighted at Hakodate, at the very extreme southern tip of Hokkaido. Started to snow heavily as we arrived; first snow I've seen (falling) all day. Dawn over the outskirts of Sapporo as we pulled out, with the sky blue all the way to the horizon and the pink and purple clouds reflecting onto the huddled buildings caked and glazed with snow, was the prettiest thing I've seen in a while. When the sun lifted itself above the clouds, I even saw a sun dog. As we got up to speed, a fine spray of snow flew from our passing, and when two trains met there was a veritable explosion of white dust, pure and clean as...well, driven snow. This island is a skier's paradise—not too cold but laden with tons upon tons of fine white powder. Incredible. 

I now have 35 minutes in this bleak, chairless, freezing station until the Super Hakucho for Shin-Aomori leaves. Think I'll eat some of my snacks. 

What I would have sworn was an active volcano just south of Sapporo.

The Super-Hokuto 2 in Hakodate Station.  

The platforms at Hakodate. Snowing like the dickens. 

Bleak, cheerless, chairless Hakodate Station. 

The Hakucho 28, ready to leave. 

11:13 a.m. Sitting on the train and waiting to get going. Feeling a powerful sense of melancholy which I can't account for, which began last night. The trip nearing its conclusion? The gray skies? Missing Miss H (and knowing that I won't see her until late tomorrow night)? Approaching the climax of Dan Simmons's The Terror, and knowing that his book puts my own paltry, puerile manuscript to shame? Musing that I'll be 28 this year and have the creeping sense that I've accomplished nil in all that time? The persistent feeling that I'm not really traveling, just picking first-world countries and cities on a map and booking tickets on line? The tallboy of Sapporo Gold I just cracked open? 

All of them, probably. This is going to be an unpleasant introspective two-hour ride to Honshu, I can tell. Oh well. Let's hope some more sightseeing out the window and a bit of music will put me to rights. 

1:45 p.m. Back in the land of bullet trains. I have a comfy, spacious seat and a porthole to myself again. But confound the Hokkaido JR! We were seven minutes late pulling into Shin-Aomori. I made the Hayate 36 with literally a minute to spare. Not cool. The Hakucho from Hakodate came to a complete, inexplicable stop TWICE during the two-hour run. Rrrgh. Makes me mad. At least I have a huge, delicious, green Hokkaido apple to console me. 

2:05 p.m. Dang, that was a tasty apple. 

The skies are clearing—we went through some blinding snowstorms on the last stretch to Aomori. There's a lot less snow down here, though I've seen snow-devils whirling and dancing in empty fields. I hope it stays clear through Honshu—and I hope I'm on the right side of the Osaka train so I can finally see Mt. Fuji (speaking of apples, heh heh). I didn't see it the last time I came this way. 

I am SO going to miss my connection at Osaka—no, I mean Okayama. I'm calling it right now. 

2:36 p.m. Morioka is a very pretty place when it isn't snowing. Blue snow-covered hills and cloud shadows. 

3:30 p.m. Gathering a boatload of passengers at Sendai. Last time I got a JR Pass they gave me a map with it. I expected it this time, but they didn't give me one, and I neglected to bring any. I'd love to be able to track our progress. We're more than halfway according to my watch, at least—though we did sit pointlessly in Morioka for 10 minutes or so. Hoo boy...well, the snow is all gone. No slush, even—just moist earth and wet pavement. I wonder what the weather will be like in Kyushu. 

4:49 p.m. Between Omiya and Ueno. We'll be at Tokyo Station in 20 minutes. Shades of night are falling fast; it'll probably be too dark to see Mt. Fuji. I've been traveling for 10 hours and have another 7 to go. 

6:13 p.m. Okay, I think I've got it figured out. If by some miracle I make my transfer at Okayama, all well and good. I'll moon around Shin-Yamaguchi Station all night and take the first train to Hakata in the morning. 

If (as I suspect) I don't make it, no biggie. I have ¥27,000 ($250-$260) left, which should cover a night bus—or train, if there is one. Or I might just say to hell with it and moon around Okayama. It's just one hour between there and Shin-Yamaguchi, and the ticket agent in Sapporo told me it's just 40 minutes more to Hakata. I could catch the 7:00 train from there and be in Hakata by a quarter to nine. When I get to Okayama, I'll have a look at the timetables. 

I have a really unhealthy lifestyle, you know? All I do is sit—and read, or write, or play computer games, or ride trains. No wonder I'm fat and blind (well, overweight and eyestrained). 

7:55 p.m. Just finished The Terror by Dan Simmons. If anything it's shown me what marvelous fruit an exhaustively researched and (as one ecstatic critic put it) "fully textured" historical novel can bear. Subsequently I've begun to believe that my own attempt at a historical novel, Mugunghwa (and perhaps Book One of my magnum opus, Revival, which is a historical/science fiction adventure tale) may be woefully under-researched, under-developed and inadequate. What'd make me feel better is if I had my computer with me so I could start making a list of written resources I've used (and need to look up as well), and begin tweaking both manuscripts again. The Tokaido-Sanyo Shinkansen has wi-fi, but I don't have my laptop. Shazbot. 

One more stop and then it's Shin-Osaka. That stop, incidentally, is Kyoto—one of my favorite cities in Japan. Sure is a shame I can't stop and play in it while I'm here. 

Okay, enough melancholy. I have my work cut out for me when I get back. For now let's just focus on getting to Okayama—and Shin-Yamaguchi, if possible. 

8:41 p.m. It's frustrating knowing that the train I'm in is sitting on the same rails that would take me all the way to Hakata—but can't, not tonight. What's also frustrating is that the train left the station five minutes late (either because it was tardy in arriving here or the cleaners took too long or both). That leaves me one measly minute to transfer at Okayama. 

Yeah. Right. It ain't happening, not unless the Kodama 767 at Okayama is also late in departing. Time will tell. 

9:09 p.m. Nishi-Akashi. Why are we just sitting here?!!

9:14 p.m. Finally moving. Jesus. That was easily 10-15 minutes. This didn't happen the last time I was here. Is Japan crumbling? Nah. A country shouldn't be judged by whether its trains run on time. Not solely, anyway. 

Young couple across from me are dozing together. Her head's canted at a 90° angle to rest on the dude's bony shoulder. Both are dressed in identical shades of gray, black, and white—NE Asian thing, couples dressing to match; the Koreans do it all the time, much to Miss H's disgust and my amusement. These two got on at Osaka. As I've wondered so many times while traveling on planes, boats, or trains—who are they? What were they doing and where are they heading?

9:55 p.m. I really can't believe it. I made it. The Kodama 765 pulled into Okayama at 9:53, and the 767 was right across the platform waiting for me. I jumped on without even looking to see what number it was—only reassuring myself with a tentative peek out the still-open door. I am Shin-Yamaguchi bound. 

Gotta hand it to Japan Rail. I had to admit I doubted 'em there for a minute. This is like a novel where the author looks like he's going to kill off your favorite character in the most contrived and ignominious way possible, only to save 'em at the last minute and have them execute a bold and brilliant counterattack which eviscerates the threat. 

First priority when I hit Yamaguchi at midnight—timetables. Second—a map. I want to see where in flaming hell I am. The western tip of Honshu, I'm guessing. 

So let's see here—setting aside that the Sapporo-Hakodate-Aomori run was by express train and not bullet train, I've nonetheless traveled from central Hokkaido to western Honshu in—what's it been—15 hours? WHY don't we have high-speed rail in the U.S. yet??

No, wait, scratch that. I'm not in western Honshu. Jumpin' Jesus—I haven't even passed Hiroshima yet. That's where I changed trains to go to Hakata when I was here in August. 

Dang. Gotta see if I can find a map in Yamaguchi. 

10:46 p.m. About an hour out of Yamaguchi and thundering toward Hiroshima—I hope. I just finished Paul Theroux's Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. Feelings are too effervescent and profound to describe. All dark outside the train windows. It really is like being a bullet in the barrel of a gun. What'll we hit? I miss Miss H. Need water—or beer. 

11:10 p.m. Brushed and flossed and ditched my trash while we were passing through (and stopping at) Hiroshima. How many times am I going to sneak through this town without stopping and seeing it?

No idea what the weather's like out there—temperature, I mean. People are still wearing long coats. At least there aren't any hats, gloves, scarves, or earmuffs. 

11:34 p.m. Tokuyama—last stop before Shin-Yamaguchi. Some people actually got on. Still no clue about weather—I can tell it's windy and that's that. Heavens—did I really leave Sapporo nearly 17 hours ago??

I hate to stop there, but that's the final note in my journal for February 6th. I'll fill you in on what happened that night after I got off the train at Shin-Yamaguchi tomorrow. I'd also like to add, here and now, that this train trip was the first time I'd ever seen a sun dog, a snow-devil or an active volcano. Oh mama, the places I've gone and the things I've seen...

Hokkaido diary: the 65th Sapporo Snow Festival

In one of the many cut-rate sci-fi adventure stories I read as a youth and continue to read to this day (this one was On Earth As It Is In Hell, an officially-licensed Hellboy novel by Brian Hodge), a defeated villain defiantly tells the hero: "Do you know why you'll always lose, in the end? Because what you consider victories are such small things."

Going to the Sapporo Snow Festival reminded me of that quip, for some reason. It just impressed me how something that started so small—a pack of enterprising Hokkaido University students building modest snow sculptures in Odori Park in central Sapporo—blossomed into an annual world-famous festival that attracts over two million foreign tourists per year.

This year I was one of them. Here's my diary entry for that day: 

2/5:

10:32 a.m. Nice long sleep-in. At Kita-12 jo waiting for the train. Hardly anybody here. Is it because I'm used to Seoul, which is always a zoo, or because of the festival? The 65th Sapporo Snow Festival starts today, and I am heading first to Odori Park and then to Susukino to take in two-thirds of it (the other third is up in Tsudome, near Asaba, way up north, but I'm prioritizing). 

It's STILL snowing. Must have snowed all night. Light snow, heavy snow, light snow again. The only time it hasn't snowed was the bright sunny first morning. Wow. Not sure how easy it'll be trying to wrangle an umbrella AND a camera in this weather, but I'll try.

1:07 p.m. What I was praying for happened. At 11 or so, 30 minutes after I arrived at Odori Park, the sky cleared. The snow stopped.

Hokkaido scallop, ¥500. Good deal. 

Crab soup, also five hundred yen. Three kinds of crab!

I got some great pics and then strolled south to Susukino to see the ice sculptures.

 

That there may be no speculation...those are real fish.

Now they're just making me hungry...

Now I'm standing outside of Sushizanmai (which looks packed to the gills) and memorizing the menu. I want the Uruoi Sushimori Special, which has herring roe, boiled prawn, salmon roe, red tuna, white stuff that could be squid or flounder, red snapper, and six other things besides. Great place—the waitresses bustle and flit about in blue blouses, white aprons, black stockings and buckled shoes, while the chefs flay away at the fish, egg, and seaweed with their long, thin knives, shouting hearty hellos, goodbyes and thank-yous to the patrons coming and going. The tea is hot and the atmosphere warm in more ways than one.

You could immediately tell the difference between this and any other cut-rate sushi joint—fresh, tender ginger, moist rice and succulent seaweed. Eating the herring roe was an interesting experience—it had the color and texture of an orange slice. The miso soup with prawn heads was a lovely counterpoint. The sea urchin roe had the consistency of apple butter. There was also sardine, sea eel, and albacore tuna, plus shellfish. One of the red fish—either mackerel or red tuna—simply melted in my mouth. A feast. 

3:00 p.m. Sitting in the Hokkaido University Museum. Made a brief but futile stop at the gift shop for souvenirs. Pole Town (an underground mall between Odori and Susukino Stations) was a bust, too. Speaking of busts, I'm going to go see William Clark's now.
"Boys, be ambitious!" 

3:41 p.m. Just sent off the postcard to my folks at Sapporo's big blocky grey post office, east of the station. I'm lucky everything is so close together in this town. I think I'll hit the station on the way back to the hotel in one last-ditch effort to find souvenirs. 

5:32 p.m. Darkness has fallen. My last day in Sapporo is over. I'm ready to be gone, but I am a bit sad. I found no souvenirs—not in the station, nor Tokyu Department Store, nor anywhere else. All that's left is to get some chicken kebabs (yakitori) and beer for dinner, pack my bags and go to bed early. 

7:28 p.m. ADDENDUM. I had a peek in the yakitori place and discovered it was actually an izakaya—and the prices weren't nice. So I stumped a bit further south and found something that wasn't crowded, noisy, or overpriced—Beer & Coffee Venison. The name isn't poetic license—they serve deer meat. So I went on in. The light was low, coming from a line of glass globes over the wooden bar, every other one of which had the names of various Scotch whiskies written on it in multicolored marker. Lots of dark wood and white stucco-like walls, interspersed with tables and chairs with cross-shaped holes in the back (plus fully-antlered deer skulls on the walls and old coffee grinders and tea tins on the shelves) completed the rustic ambience [sic]. Behind the bar were two men: one elderly and thin, severe in demeanor, wearing a tie and black waistcoat and apron, with a beige wool-knit cap which clung to his bald pate like a yarmulke. The other man was likewise in a dark suit (with a fleece jacket flung over it) but was young, handsome, and energetic. He drummed his fingers on the bar in time to the jazz playing on the stereo (Colin Stranahan and Lloyd Miller), and buzzed about snipping labels or sterilizing glasses. The place had a bewildering collection of empty beer bottles in the window and quite a few in the fridge, Negra Modelo, Old Tom, Stone IPA and Löwenbräu among them. The Scotch selection, though extensive, tended to favor Islay and Highlands single malts, I noted. 

I sat down and ordered some venison sausage and a ¥500 glass of Heartland (a European pale lager made by Kirin, with a fine flavor and a delicious creamy head). I nibbled on Hokkaido potato salad and sliced pickles (and later the sausage and some fresh fruit) while the younger barkeep and I attempted a conversation. His name was Kei, and he loved jazz. It was he who manned the Toshiba laptop above the bar and chose tune after syncopated tune. I sensed rather than knew—for he spoke as little English as I did Japanese—that he was a student at Hokkaido University and that this was his part-time job, and that he longed to escape from pulling pints and pouring whiskey and escape to Tokyo (or perhaps even New York) and found a jazz trio. We talked as much as we were able. I sipped beer. The old proprietor washed up or stared into space. I felt the weight of my impending departure weigh heavily upon me. It was an introspective moment—the old man in his wool cap behind the bar, arms folded, staring at the empty room; Kei drumming his fingers, nodding his head and gazing at the computer screen; and me with a cleaned plate and a sweating beer glass in front of me, eyeing the collection of whiskey bottles in their glass cabinets, thinking about getting up at 4 a.m. tomorrow and feeling simultaneously warm and content yet lonely and restless. 

I got up, paid, snapped some photos of the bar and its stewards, bowed low, and left. I bought a crap-ton of food at the convenience store for tomorrow's 18-hour journey—onigiri, bento, salad, coffee, beer, apples, and even something which looked suspiciously like kimchi. All I have to do now is pack my bags and await the dawn.