Getting a jump start on the heat. People on the way to work, popping into Mishima Taisha. I wander the cool of the grounds, passing a man chanting not to the altar but to the waters of the pond.
I stroll the high street, it too tidy and clean. Mishima cares about itself, with its historical markers, ample green spaces, nice little lanes free from the bondage of power lines. Not much of old history remains, but that could be a war casualty, as the city once hosted an artillery unit, and neighboring Numazu was bombed late in the war.
A police car roars up to stop at a hotel I just passed. Another cop comes running. At the train crossing is an overweight cop, not running.
Something amiss, which I'll never discover.
I know I was at the edge of the old post town when I see the joyato latern. There's a small strand of namiki here too, barely two meters
high. There's little on the landscape beyond to entertain me, so I put in the headphones and listen to a mix of Tom Waits cover tunes. I discovered him just before moving to Japan, his Anthology being one of a mere ten cassettes I brought over. His songs remind me of an old girlfriend, a refugee from the Kobe quake of 1995, and a rainy Sunday where we lay on the tatami and sang Tom's songs out into the darkened room. He also reminds me of Jordan, now dear departed, and memories of him, and lost others cause me to weep as I stroll on. No need to feel embarrassed for this, tears are liquid love.
Things stay industrial awhile, then I enter Numazu. I'd looked forward to seeing this, the former home of a good friend. But the Tōkaidō keeps me away from the city's best face. Instead I'm walking the strip mall look of her outskirts, before being dumped onto Route 163.
Thus begins hell. On the map, I thought I'd be on a quiet little suburban road, which it is, but one with the near constant hum of passing cars. I'm forced to stay on the sidewalk, which breaks my stride with every dip of driveway and perpendicular lane. It is the worst of all worlds as there are no real shops or places to take a break. I will walk this hellish route for the three full hours.
In hindsight, I should have walked the parallel beach road instead, but worried I'd miss the history. But my route has few traces. There are the odd signs and markers, but nothing remains of what they once marked.
Literally, the only real find of the day is Hakuin's birthplace, but it too is modern and concrete. I look around for his grave, a half-hearted attempt because I want to get on with it. It remaind unfound, though I did find the grave of his mother. There are a few markers at Hara post town for old historical sites, but they stand before the usual dull suburban homes. There is not a single trace of anything on this road.
Have I mentioned the heat? Thirty-seven degrees, and no shade for there are no trees. Things leap out from my somnambulistic march. A greenhouse seemingly built solely for a ping-pong table. An anti-aging salon, but even the sign is faded. A closed izakaya, but the owner obviously lives up top, for I spy what must be his work apron dancing on the line. It reminds me of the breeze and I feel cool for about four or five seconds. In one section stand a startling number of abandoned houses, one after another after another. Vegetation is starting to take hold again.
By some miracle I come across a cafe opening just on the stroke of 11. A few other people have turned up as well, dressed in tidy clothes and waiting in tidy cars with the A/C on max. A startling contrast, I pull off the reek of shoes and my forearms darken the handsome wooden counter before which I pour myself. My ice coffee costs twice what it should, and is downed in half the time. I wanted to rest longer in the cool, but my current condition soon has me ashamedly heading for the door.
I have a second fish out of water experience at lunch. I find a small eatery, yet when I enter I find it filled with rough workmen. They take up both tables, but I'm invited to sit with the workers, who are welcoming. As my buttocks is mere centimeters above a stool that looks more at home in an elementary school cafeteria, the guy across from me lights up a cigarette. Like a marionette, I pop back up, saying a more polite equivalent of "Can't ya see I'm walking here? I'd rather not be around smoke." I step back outside and walk a few meters, noting on the map that the next shop is a full hour onward, a ramen shop. And it's not really ramen weather.
I sheepishly reenter, to hear one of the workman say, "I knew it," under his breath. And it's not really a day for okonomiyaki either, but that's all they are doing today. The one I get is perhaps the worst I've ever had, basically a cabbage patty barely held together by batter. The draft beer is a winner, and I feel a bit like Alan Booth when I order a second. The workmen have left by now, but not after they've all had shaved ice. I follow suit, my Blue Hawaii leaving me humming Elvis as I step back into the blazing sun.
What else to report? My busy road leading to an even busier road? Relief in a final stretch along a quieter lane, but one devoid of any interest. The clouds are coming over now, but bring little cool. I pick up the pace in order to catch an earlier train, which will allow for a longer soak in the hotel bath before I meet friend and former Blockhead David for beer and lite bites at Baird Taproom back in Mishima. Such is my reward for what was certainly the worst single day of walking I've ever had.
On the turntable: Abbey Lincoln, "Abbey is Blue"