Up near the peak.
No rock climbers on Mitsutoge's walls today.
A day for crampons.
Usually he's a meek, docile, well mannered, overweight, spoiled excuse for a member of the brave and wild feline tribe. This morning he was trying to look pantherish.
An unexpected fog killed the views and deterred the crowds on Idiot's Ridge yesterday, making for an eerie atmosphere in a strangely snowless, unnaturally warm February Tanzawa.
I walked the million steps up in penance for city excess, out of breath, sore in the thigh and embarrassed.
Once up--hours later--the body finally purred, as we cruised the sasa-carpeted ridge between the mountains.
The old man made us udon in the hut. We came down the short route, concentration dangerously low from tiredness. The road out seemed to last forever, as we dreamt of sleep on the train home, hot baths, salon pas and shabu shabu.
"Viva la Quinte Brigada" from "Christy Moore: Live at the Point 2006" is the latest song to send me into that magic state of public euphoria you remember forever—born out of that random chemistry between the song you've chosen and the place you happen to be.
Wednesday night around 8.30 I was standing around on that big fucker of a hill leading away from Meguro Station down past the Tavern and on into darkest God knows where, a crazed wall-to-wall grin on my face, fighting the urge to sing out loud or start dancing, out of consideration of the passers-by walking home after a long day.
I was listening to a song of a former bank clerk from County Kildare who balked at the mundanity and upped and left for England with his guitar, touring the pubs of the folk scene, often off his nut, for the best part of a decade, in pursuit of his own road, before finally making it and going on to become the national icon he is today—a Bono of simplicity, without the grand gestures.
I was standing in downtown Meguro because I'd had a craving for nashi goreng since the Asian place in Akasaka shut down. We'd found an Indonesian place with good reviews on Mixi out in further Meguro-ku. I was standing waiting for her, a simple, poetic song coming in through my new Shure earphones (great by the way), when the waves of euphoria—for euphoria is most definitely a wave—started coming over me. And random though it was, I knew immediately it was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life.
Happiness comes as a collection of moments, sometimes years apart, from that simple, random, uncontrollable combination of the right song and the right place.