Whew. Come back from the Scott’s, throw some laundry in the washer, it’s 4 AM. Jump on my bike to get some Chi Kung liniment from Quenton, who lives about 3 miles away. Get back to the house at 5 AM. Throw the clothes in the dryer and start packing. Get stuff packed except for the drying clothes, it’s 6:30 AM. Have to leave for the airport by 7. In lieu of sleep, I will take a hot bath!
My dad pounding on the bathroom door.
“Miles, we’re falling into a pattern of lateness here.”
An old joke.
“You go right on thinking like that!”
Another old joke.
Out of the tub, down the stairs, I’m wearing a towel and dammit I packed all my shorts at the bottom of the suitcase. Looks like I’m goin’ commando today! Aw, yeah!
I take a broke-ass prop plane from PDX to Seattle International, then scramble from GATE N to GATE S. One-car underground trains; National guard troops patrolling everywhere in cammies, web belt, canteen, handgun; the direct route to gate S is inacessible due to construction. I take an escalator up and check the exploded-view, isometric map of the airport until I find a train. We’ve got Freeman! A few zigs and zags and an hour later, I’m on a 747 to Narita.
Get off in Tokyo. I’ve been feeling the fear in my chest, mostly, on the plane, that Immigration will not let me through. I’m re-entering japan on a tourist visa; I left when my previous tourist visa expired. Technically this is legal and allowed — the US has a special agreement with Japan about these visas — but in actuality, Immigration can become paranoid that Americans are working without bothering to get a work visa, and send you back.
I put TRAIN AIKIDO on my “reason for visit” form. I’ve got my Gi in my suitcase, a few aikido books in my carry-on bag. If needs be I will throw the black-uniformed Immigration guy to the ground to prove my the depth of my study.
He looks at the form, looks at me over the counter.
“Aikido?”
“Hai, hai, Aikido!”
He grins and strikes a karate pose.
“Oh, Karate! Shotokan des ka?”
“Hai. Aikido… muzukashii”
“yeah, but it’s… uh… omoshiroi. No, tanoshii.” Was he in his high school’s martial arts club?
“blah blah Submission[in english]”
He’s talking about submission holds. I tell him maybe not so much submission holds as throws.
He waves me past the counter.
Ha!
I stride out of the airport with victory in my ears… it’s that one song from Half-Life, the one after you put the satellite in orbit.
