Category: solitariness (page 1 of 1)

It was raining in Yosemite National Park. I got off the bus and trotted toward the nearest eaves of a house. After a few minutes, eager to get into a building, I started to walk under my umbrella. The rain splashed on the road, thunder, maybe, on the way. 

When I entered The Mountain Room Lounge, where many families were eating lunch, I recognized how lonely I could be up here, idling in the nearby souvenir shop. Having nothing to do in particular, I headed for the place I got off the bus twenty minutes before the bus departure time. 

I was waiting for the bus beneath the eaves, staring at rain streaming down from the trees, however, and neither the bus nor any of the tour guests emerged. I remained uncertain as to whether they come here. Did I miss it at the wrong time or place? No way―I was coming and going on the road, looking here and there.

Several buses passing before my eyes, I immediately checked one license plate after another. I felt my face turned pale―the bus left me stranded in the darkness of the forest?; the next thing I knew, I ran as fast as I could back to the lounge. With a sigh of relief, I toweled off my head, took off my drenched hoodie and wrung it, for I discovered the tour guests sat around the table enjoying lunch.

Los Angeles, in contrast to San Francisco, was hot and sunny (June). What excited me in Hollywood was that there were many people in outlandish outfits. Whatever that makes you unique seemed to be significant for those who wanted to achieve great success. I was jealous of them―I was determined to be marginalized in Japanese society, which embraces normal people.

When I strolled about Hollywood Blvd., I found a stylish cafe where there were people in long lines. I walked in and stood in a line. They chose something to eat and drink, talked to the staff and left―this process smooth and quick―however, I shrank back at the sight of their small conversations. That reminded me that when I ordered a coke at McDonald’s I got three. There was so much pressure on me―people were waiting behind me. I casually stepped out of the line and I entered a Mexican restaurant where the seats were empty.

I came into Los Vegas to go to Grand Canyon and see “O” by Clique du Soleil. One morning, I was running along Las Vegas Blvd street. Each time I crossed path with strangers who ran or walked, I would say good morning―it was very pleasant moment. I pulled off my T-shirt on the way and continued to run.

After running I lifted the weights at my hostel, believing that building up my muscles would offset my weakness that had sapped my confidence. It temporarily made me more positive, and while there was something wrong with my mind. I got the feeling that if stripped of an armor called muscles, my weakness came to light, as a mere masquerade. 

For instance, some people would cling too much to the position of authority, by acknowledging he can do nothing without it at heart. Fear of losing what he gained would freeze him to the place he has been. Others who had settled into the company’s strong brand power when starting his own will bring home to him the reality that nobody deals with him. But, in other words, it is time to show them what I was made of.

I had gone away from Grand Canyon vantage point. I became aware three women figures waiting for the tour bus at the roundabout. At that time, of course, I had made sure of the departure time and location since the mishap had beset my Yosemite tour; I knew the buses never come on time, and that nobody was as strict about time as Japanese. 

As I was standing a little away from them, the other tour guests had not turned up. I noticed three women, two Asian and a white, having anxious faces. A white woman, who seems to be traveling alone and who was a what imposing figure, was as much as to say that she did not associate with Asian men, and so I said to Asian women, “The bus hasn’t come.” (Read part1.) “No, but the bus driver dare said ‘twenty minutes,’” one of Asian women tilted her head thoughtfully. I begun to walk off toward the pathway. After a few minutes, I saw the other guests leaning against the back of the couch.

To find out myself, as so many come, I had come to New York. I passed through the gait of Colombia University later in the evening. I walked by students―intelligent faces―reading books: biology or physics or philosophy or … ? And then, when I saw a group having conversation on a flight of stone steps, for some reason, I recalled my teenage years―remorse welled up through me. If I had not strayed from right path, this kind of university was where I should have been long ago. I turned my gaze away and walked into the path with greenery in the dark.

The next morning, I ran at a faster speed than usual in Central park. What on earth can I do?―no career and no friends and no person I can lean on and no … . Suddenly I stopped to know where I was and looked around―at the top of the concrete slope stood a matronly woman with her dog on a leash, gazing at me. “May I help you?”

“Why don’t you know that?” said a flight attendant, “You need ESTA(Visa Waiver Program) to enter America.” “What?” I stood gaping in front of the check-in counter at Fukuoka Airport. “You might still make it,” she said in a hurry, and started to register for ESTA on my behalf. Three attendants had gathered around the PC.

“What’ the matter?” whispered one of them. I was staring absent-mindedly at them. It was not unusual for me to make such a blunder: in Thailand I failed to withdraw local currency at ATM and in Morocco I got pickpocketed. With a bitter smile, I pretended that I was not bothered by that.

On the plane, suddenly it dawned on me that the transferring from Taipei to San Francisco was only thirty minutes―I was likely to miss it.  I came to my senses at this point, in the stirring of desperation, signaled for an attendant and asked her if there were any Japanese because of no skilled English.

After a few minutes, a young Japanese attendant, who seemed to be adept at customer support, crouching low, came out of the blue. As soon as I explained that, she grasped my situation. Light on her feet, she ushered me toward the entrance door so that I would be the first person to get off the plane. 

Soon after she and I sat across from each other, a Western man came right up to her; there was a very short talk. Impressed by her quick wit and command of English, I was being oblivious to what happened to me. Not showing her emotions on her face, she said to me. “He is going to San Francisco too, you would follow him.” 

When I stepped off the plane, a Taiwanese attendant already waited for me. Anyway, I scuttled after her and saw her get into the small open vehicle. Just as I climbed into the backseat, it started suddenly, and though she said something to me, her voice was drowned out by the blast of sirens. Moreover, I was a little taken aback when the vehicle moved with tremendous speed; she seemed to enjoy the headwind that fluttered her hair out behind ears. 

I got off the vehicle with her at the point, where I saw the long straight road to the boarding gate; in no time, we raced for it at full speed. No passengers around the gate, but I made it just in time to get on the plane and said to her, “Thank you. Really thank you, all of you.” “You are welcome,” she was panting and puffing.

America was the first time for me. I was able to get through the passport control with no trouble. With a leap of my heart I went down a few escalators to the baggage claim where there were people awaited their baggage. When I saw them catching their own disappearing from my view one after another, I paced back and forth around the carousel.

After a while, the carousel slowing to a halt with a click and there were a few people left―I was in silence. Soon a sturdy man on a heavy machine started to clean the floor. So confused, that I searched for my baggage in every corner of the area. Eventually, I took my book, “A correction of phrases in travel English,” out of my backpack. The excerpt words: “My baggage hasn’t come.” I recited.

I showed my claim tug to the airport staff. He told me my baggage was in Taipei, and that I would get it in my hotel; however, I was not sure if it would be arrive during my stay, because I was suppose to leave San Francisco for Los Angeles in three days. And then, as I was at a loss how to respond, how to ask, and what to do next, I missed my chance that I kept talking to him, for he had left his seat. I was paid no attention and solitariness engulfed me. I remembered how I behaved at Fukunaka airport, and that in spite of my blunder, they did the best for me.

It was late evening that I walked in food court in the airport. At the restaurant several Japanese people in business attire sat around a table laughing and talking boisterously. A man with a few buttons on his white shirt open put his arm on the woman’s shoulders―she seemed to gave him a flirtatious smile. Another drunken middle-aged man spoke eloquently to the others as if to boast his glory days. It was such a sight, so awful and absurd, that I made me think I was superior to them: I could act independently, but he could not do anything on his own. I walked with a swagger by the restaurant.

At dawn when I exited from Powell Street Station, cold air sucked my anxiety―a black man lingering around the corner of the exit, a white woman with her blonde hair tied back walking her dog and traffic lights making simple sounds I had never heard. Having come to want warmth, I passed a middle-aged couple with Starbucks cups peering through the glass into a miscellaneous shop. I bought coffee at 7-Eleven―the clerk put small change with a bang in front of me―whether his behavior is common or not, I sensed I was about to enter a new life.

In Aquatic Park in Fisherman’s Wharf, I lay down and gawked at people walked by, so obsessed with my baggage, that I could not enjoy the moment. I recalled the young attendant, who I met on the plane to Taiwan―beauty and brains―if she were me, how would she handle this? The next second I pulled myself together, rose to my feet and started to walk along Jefferson street. 

 When I ate Shrimp & Crab Sandwich on the bench, my phone was vibrating. I answered the call. “Hello …  Is that K … ?” I got agitated extremely and felt like escaping somewhere so far, even though she went on and on about my baggage; I could not get what she said at all, hovering around the bench restlessly.

“Ah, I … I waited … Iugga … baggage. Tomorrow tomorrow (I didn’t know how to say ‘’day after tomorrow’’ in English) I go to Los Angeles.” The more I spoke, the more embarrassed and discouraged ―my own uselessness with poor English―I became. After the call, I finished off seafood that had gone cool.