Seagull Village

I went on the road trip alone at the beginning of spring. My plan was to first head north to the three holy mountains clustered by the sea, round the tip of Honshu and then come down south again by way of the eastern coast. When there was no more frost blinding my car windows in the mornings and the roads were clear of black ice, I packed my Leica into the trunk and left.

Up north, I saw the remains of winter's spectacular frozen trees, the fantastic, monstrous shapes formed by the snow, now slowly melting into the landscape. I saw the enormous crater lake of an ancient volcano, its waters a startling, pure jade green, the sand by its shores dark yellow ochre. In the evening I took the ropeway to the summit of the central mountain, where a five-story temple stood. In the early hours of the dark, still-cold morning, the sun rose, burning through the clouds closer and more radiant than I had ever seen it.

As I began the drive south, the rains began. For three days I drove with my wipers working furiously against the lashing downpour, the roads grim and damp, the sky unyielding. Whenever I stepped outside my hands shook uncontrollably with cold. The expressways were empty. At night I stopped at cheap motels or inns and ate dinner in empty neighborhood bars. In the mornings I paced outside what small shops were in business until the owners shuffled in and reluctantly unlocked the door and unshuttered their windows. I browsed to buy only the occasional magazine or cheap pack of chocolate. For my lunches I ate thick udon in hot broth at roadside stands or packaged sandwiches outside convenience stores, and bought hot coffee for the road.

Then the weather cleared up and I finally saw the sea. It glimmered from my right side as I drove, gradients of twilight blue and steely gray, the sky above scattered with wisps of clouds. I rolled down my windows to breathe the air, fresh and tinged with salt. Occasionally the landscape smoked as farmers lit fires to clear the dead grass from winter. As I went further south, I saw paddies of water burgeoning with shoots and sweeps of long pastures.

One day I took a small road that zig-zagged around several miles of farmland and came out only half a kilometer from the sea. The last gas stand I refueled at was an ancient one-man operation, the owner a leathery-faced scarecrow in grease-stained jersey, constantly smoking and wordless, whom I paid in crumpled bills and the coins left from my motel jaunts. The houses around me grew smaller and further apart. In the afternoon a tall hill rose to my left, covered in burgeoning yellow charlocks and dandelions. As I wound round the hill I saw a small cluster of houses. It looked like another town. I stopped to rest, parking in a sunny, empty lot by a large wooden building.

I stepped out of my car. The building seemed to be closed. Another building across the street had a faded and tattered sign, rust beginning to edge in on the doors. But there were still irises and potted daisies on some street corners, and the other buildings looked at least clean, if not new. I walked for several minutes before coming to a steep staircase that led down to the sea. It was carved from the dark blue-grey stones that I had seen in the hills, and heavy cracks ran down the middle. I descended, and saw the woman.

She was walking out of the surf, wearing dark cropped trousers and a loose white blouse clinging half-transparent to her belly. Her wind-tossed hair was bluntly cut halfway down her neck. She had a pale face, a fine nose, and a short, strong neck. When she reached the dry sand she stretched her arms, turned her face from the wind, and caught sight of me.

"The weather is wonderful, isn't it?" she called, walking in my direction. I headed towards her, too...