This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said.

Albert Camus, “The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays”

Aliases for this post:

• Saki: my first couch-surfing host turned Tokyo friend. Originally from Chiba, now living in Honancho, west of Shinjuku. Messy bangs and round, wiry spectacles; dimples; and a sparse five-o’clock shadow.
• Moki: Saki’s friend from Chiba, now living in south Shibuya. A half-Japanese, half-Pakistani music producer, with an olive skin and large eyes (and irises that seemed remarkably mascara-like).

Both 28 years old, like me, both with almost identical first names.

• Omi: the younger brother of Saki’s childhood friend. Long hair in ponytail, feminine features, and wiry glasses.

30 August 2023

• Night bus to Ikebukuro
• 11:35-11:50 Ikebukuro station to Ebisu station (multiple JR lines go there)

Ikebukuro

Out of my bad sleeping experiences from the past six and a half months – two days of no sleep inside planes, sleeping on airport chairs, on the floor, in a cramped ne-café booth, in a mountain shelter – last night’s was the worst.

The crowded night bus from Sendai to Tokyo was a regular bus. I woke with my left side cramping and my eyes bloodshot.

From 6:30-9:00 or so, I sat on a bench near Ikebukuro station and wrote on my computer. Then I hung out with a 30-year-old Vietnamese guy with bubble-gum pink BTS-like bangs who had recently moved to a stylish apartment near the station for two months.

I found out he was a famous singer – very big in his country – and even here, Tokyo locals recognized him. Paparazzi and all.

Ebisu

Next, I took the train to south Shibuya to meet Moki, my host for tonight. A half-Japanese, half-Pakistani guy I’d met in late April. He was a friend of Saki, my Tokyo friend, and my first couch-surfing host. The night I’d met the latter, the three of us had gone out to Akihabara for a maid café and dinner at a conveyor belt sushi.

We were all 28. Both guys, originally from Chiba, had studied eastern philosophy in uni. This and art were two passions we all shared.

(All of this was from my final Round One Tokyo post, which I STILL hadn’t gotten around to writing.)

Ever since that night in April, Moki had offered to host me, even though he’d never dipped his toes into couch-surfing. Having lived in no less than seven countries around the world – Pakistan, Singapore, Australia, to name a few, and now Japan, for the past fifteen years – he was interested in traveling, and getting into hosting and couch-surfing himself.

Couch-surfing at his place in early May hadn’t worked out, so now, for my first night back in Tokyo, he’d invited me over.

He was a music producer who lived in a hilly, artsy neighbourhood in south Shibuya. His apartment building had been converted from a modern B&B. This meant that his one-bedroom studio was quite large. His bed was on the top bunk, whereas the bottom had been transformed into storage space. There was a large desk, a fridge, two guest lockers that were now a closet, a piano keyboard, fancy speakers and microphone, ambient lighting than snaked throughout the walls, and a soundproof recording booth that took up half of the floor space.

Akin to living in a hotel, the amenities were new and cutting edge (a washlet!), the shared bathroom and toilet stalls all numbered for each tenant.

The only caveat was the fact that the kitchen was downstairs. He had a fridge, a pot, a rice cooker, and a steam cooker in his room, but neither sink, nor stove. So he’d formed a habit of preparing simple meals using these cookers, and washing his dishes at the shower.

While interested in southeast Asian music above all, every piece of music spoke to him. He asked about Israeli music. We played Mizrahi music, Shofar, Israeli rap… he immediately shut his eyes and vibed to any piece that was playing.

Music was an omnipresent background feature in his apartment.

He played a ton of music for me. Practically nonstop. Possessing zero knowledge of the Japanese music scene, he was the perfect teacher for me.

We talked for hours throughout the day, because we didn’t do much other than hang out. Lunch was fish teishoku – grilled mackerel, miso soup, rice with nattou – at a local restaurant. He was the one who had gotten me into liking nattou at the end of Round One.

With his background in philosophy and his job at a music label (which he’d quit tomorrow in order to pursue freelance music production), he was particularly interested in quantifying what made music, and art as a whole, art. He sought to measure the financial value of an art work. So we got into a bit of a discussion about the nature of art, and whether it could be defined.

(In my opinion: art could be defined, yet the definition varied from person to person. So, in a way, it could not be defined.)

He told me about a free, two-week-long silent retreat he’d done in Chiba. A Vipassana course that sounded quite deranged, based on his story.

I had to do it. Such a retreat had always been on my mind. Yet the waiting list was months-long, and it required planning way in advance. For Round Two in Japan, it would not work out.

He improvised a kimchee soup for dinner. Every day he threw random ingredients into his cooker and ate dinner like this. Rice was served with shiso. Plus an unusual Okinawan tea, whose name I’d forgotten.

Moki was, without a doubt, one of the dopest guys I’d met. Everything about him was cool and effortless. Music, psychedelics, his fashion sense, his manner of speech. At the same time, our conversations were deep, almost existential.

Like Saki, he slept on two mattresses, one of which I was supposed to spread on the floor. His leather couch was for two people to sit on, not for one to recline. Yet sometime between 21:00-21:30, I was so exhausted from my lack of sleep inside the night bus, that I dozed off on the couch. Might have been in the middle of our conversation; I did not remember even closing my eyes.

Today’s highlights: hanging out with awesome people; teishoku again for lunch; everything about that simple, improvised, yet unusual (for me) dinner.

31 August 2023

• 14:45-15:00 Ebisu station to Mejiro station local train (JR Yamanote line)

Moki and I woke at 9:00, him shocked that I’d managed to sleep on that miniscule couch. After cramping yesterday morning from the night bus, I repeated the sensation today, once again sleeping in tucked-up positions.

He left after an hour to work, while I stayed at his apartment until 14:00, writing, trying to make plans with friends in Tokyo, and them not replying.

It baffled me every single time when someone seemed eager to meet, made concrete plans with me, and then stopped responding.

Mejiro

At 15:30, I met a 27-years-old Chinese expat who had been living in Tokyo for the past five years in Mejiro, a neighborhood between Shinjuku and Ikebukuro. Originally from a small city near Shanghai, he’d studied advertising, and now worked in IT.

(“Everyone works in IT,” I scoffed in response to his half-embarrassment. Like Saki, who’d studied philosophy, and now worked as a software engineer.)

Upon hearing that I hadn’t found a place for tonight yet, he kindly offered to host me. Good company and free accommodation? Even though he wasn’t from couch-surfing, I wasn’t going to say no.

He was very sweet, and so, I was happy to have met him. Today he worked remotely. When he had to go back to his computer, I tried to figure out how to get to Mount Fuji on Saturday, after discovering all the buses were fully booked.

Dinner was… TEISHOKU! At a nice, local restaurant, whose prices left us a bit shaken. 1,000 yen for a grilled mackerel – I’d grown used to a larger fish size, plus miso soup, rice, nattou, and pickled vegetables for that price. But it was still delicious.

At night, Saki and I made up our minds about Saturday and Fuji-san. I could see the mountain from the Chinese guy’s eighth floor apartment, overlooking west Shinjuku.

My second day in Tokyo was once again laid back, spent mostly on writing, eating teishoku, and hanging out with locals. But if that wasn’t what I wanted my life in Japan to look like, once I managed to find a way to settle here…

“I don’t see Tokyo, I live in Tokyo,” I recalled the British student saying to me at the end of Round One, when I’d been scurrying around Tokyo in attempt to hit all its tourist spots.

Today’s highlight: meeting someone who wanted to befriend me and host me.

1 September 2023

• 11:55-12:05 Takadanobaba station to Kudanshita station train (Tozai line), 12:10-12:20 transfer to Suitengumae station (Hanzomon line)
• Ningyochou
• 14:20-14:30 Ningyochou to Ginza (Hibiya line), 14:40-15:00 transfer to Shinjuku (Marunouchi line)

Ningyo-chou

We left at 9:00. He took the train to his office in Kawasaki, while I spent the next 2.5 hours inside the station, writing and thinking what to do today and where to spend the night. My best option would be a ne-café in Shinjuku, because that would be where I’d depart for Fuji tomorrow with Saki.

Still, how would I pass the time in west Tokyo till then? The only things on my list for that area were bars and cool restaurants, to try out with friends. Nothing for daytime.

With all my clothes being in my laundry bag, and my everlasting, burning desire to secure a second pair of jinbei still going strong, I took two trains to east Tokyo instead.

When I’d visited Shimokitazawa with the Dutch girl in April, we’d met a cool, middle-aged Japanese man who had lived there. He’d told me to look for cheap jinbei in an area called Ningyochou. (Shimokitazawa was more for western clothes.) If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have heard of it.

Crossing the entire mega-city might’ve been less than wise, but Ningyochou was the only thing on my mind.

It shouldn’t have been on it to begin with.

The map said there was a tourist information center outside Ningyochou station’s exit. I didn’t find any.

The map said there was a yukata museum. I figured there’d be shops around it, and didn’t even find the museum.

Only salary-men upon salary-men (Japanese for “businessmen”).

Ningyochou was known as a traditional doll town. Yet an hour of wandering around its streets yielded neither doll stores, nor Japanese clothing shops. Only restaurants, offices, and Western clothing shops for women.

A Ghost in Shinjuku

With nothing to do and barely any battery left, I gave up and took two metro rides to Shinjuku for a ne-café until tomorrow morning. I needed to charge my electronics, to journal, to catch up with some friends, and to make reservations for stuff anyway. Today would be an errands sort of day.

I found the ne-café with 1% of battery left. Jesus H Christ. Navigating Shinjuku station was harder than the countryside.

Then I passed the time at the adjacent Starbucks, because I needed to charge my phone, and to wait until the night to check in. Ne-cafés were open 24 hours, but they charged by the hour.

At Starbucks, I waited for several people to reply, whether friends or work, and for the umpteenth time, no one did.

WHY was this such a recurring scene lately? People had promised to get back to me, and didn’t.

How was I supposed to pass time, then, if I’d intended to spend it with some company? If I’d become dependent on people to make plans?

I recalled talking to a Russian ship export guy in South Korea and asking him what it felt like to be on the road (or sea) for a decade.

“In your travels you start realising who your real friend, who you love indeed, who you want in your life,” he’d said. “And the garbage people that you had picked up throughout your life by accident, just fall off like tree leaves that don’t get the nutrients from their host in the autumn.”

This was his eloquent, first response. Not the difficulty in adapting to new environments, lack of stability, potential homesickness, jet lag, language barrier, and so on.

No, his first thought was about friendship. Or rather, its lack thereof.

I might as well cease to expect others to make time for me, to reply to me, and just go back to spending my days alone.

At least when travelling by myself – when forming elaborate itineraries – I’d managed to make use of my time to see something; to experience something other than loneliness and frustration. Yet now I found myself in the world’s biggest city, on the trip of a lifetime, bored…

That was borderline criminal.

At 20:00, I took the Marunouchi line to Honancho to Saki. I’d left my warm clothes and altitude sickness medicine at his place.

When he opened the door, he went right into preparations. No “Hey, how are you? How was your month in Tohoku?” No questions about each other’s well-being. No small talk. Straight to business.

It wasn’t a rude behavior by any means. It was a Japanese thing. Which couldn’t have been more ironic.

In a country big on formalities – bowing, using cutlery and bowls a certain way, uttering certain stock phrases in certain situations simply because they were customary – once you dropped formalities with someone by growing close to them, none were left whatsoever.

Friends wasted neither time nor energy on adding honorifics to another’s name, nor on asking how they were. If something happened, only then they would inquire after the other’s well-being.

Still, this struck me as a bit strange, because we hadn’t seen each other in a month, and both of us had been traveling in this timeframe, him to Mongolia.

We took the medicine. I grabbed some warm clothes. Then we chatted for a while, which was fun. He purposely used increasingly difficult, casual language with me, with a lot of slang. I felt that all my progress from the last month had dissipated.

I left after an hour and returned to Shinjuku station. I didn’t know why I kept wondering if he’d invite me to spend the night. He’d already hosted me three times. But we would see each other again tomorrow. So a part of me thought it’d make sense to stick together.

I checked into the same chain of ne-café as the one in Sendai. Their Shinjuku station west exit branch was much better. The mat room was a room, rather than a booth – enclosed and private, ergo dark and quiet. Also, bigger. My legs could stretch all the way. The pillow was a bit larger, too. The room was fantastic.

The only downside was the drink machine. While the selection was four times as much (56 drinks, as opposed to 15), they were available only through a machine that poured them into cups. This took 30 agonizing seconds of waiting each time. Pouring a drink myself in Sendai was immediate, and I could also fill my bottle this way.

Regardless, this ne-café was a sight for sore eyes. Especially after the events of today.

I went to bed at 0:30, knowing full well I’d be tired before even beginning to hike tomorrow.

Today’s highlights: reuniting with Saki; my second ne-café.

2 September 2023

• Driving from Shinjuku to Mount Fuji (~3h)

I checked out of the ne-café at 10:30. It ended up costing almost twice as much as the Sendai branch.

For breakfast, I stumbled upon a bibimbap onigiri at Lawson.

Wow. Was this an actual thing that existed? In Japan? I had to latch onto it and not let go. Finally, an onigiri with flavor. It was amazing.

I popped another altitude sickness pill and wrote inside Shinjuku station until 14:30. Mostly waited for time to pass. The last few days, I’d been spending half the time in train stations or on the street, trying to connect to public Wi-Fi and find someone to hang out with. It had been boring. I hated wasting time like this on nothing.

It didn’t help that my phone would turn 6 years old in two months, and my battery had grown to last barely half a day now. Even when perpetually on flight mode. The power bank I’d bought for this trip in January had forsaken me and moved on to the next world.

No seating areas in train stations nor streets – too many people for the public Wi-Fi to be stable – nor any battery to waste… all of this made talking on the phone an impossible feat, since coming to Tokyo. I’d been itching to catch up with some people, yet we could not find a time that worked for us both, because I had next to no opportunities to call them.

I found myself waiting for the day I left Tokyo. Only in a a hotel I would be able to find some quiet and privacy.

Road Trip to Fuji-san

At 14:30, I met Saki inside Shinjuku station. He’d invited Omi, the 23-year-old, younger brother of his late childhood friend from Chiba.

Ten days ago, Omi had started uploading short, daily vlogs to TikTok, and already 300,000 people had been tuning in. Not even he could explain how he’d gone viral.

I was a bit nervous to drive on the opposite side for the first time. So Saki and Omi took turns driving instead.

At long last, I got to go on a road trip in a rental car with friends!

Our car was a brand-new hybrid model, with automatic doors and an ever-recording camera. Every new car I’d ridden in Japan, such as my Morioka host’s, had featured a camera, in case a of a traffic accident.

Which couldn’t have been more ironic. Japanese people were gentle on the road as they were on the street. Tokyo was a little congested, but we never came into a complete standstill. No honking, reckless driving, impatient cutting… everything was in perfect order.

The polar opposite of roads in Israel.

We stopped along the way at a cheap Italian chain. Good – I’d been wanting to try a Japanese pizza ever since I’d eaten one in Korea.

It didn’t compare. Disgusting pizza, popcorn shrimp, and steamed spinach (my first since January). Very cheap, very greasy, very good for my level of hunger.

We continued west. Stopped at a convenience store to stock up. At night, the highway to Kawaguchiko was empty, even though it was the weekend. A downpour caught us and reduced the visibility to almost none.

We reached Fuji-san at 20:00. A traffic officer told us to head back. The road to the all the 5^th stations (where the trails started) was closed due to roadwork. Only taxis and buses could go through.

The last bus went up the mountain at 18:00. The next bus would depart at 3:30 AM.

We were instructed to park at Fuji Parking lot. The rain had stopped by now, replaced by signs warning against bears.

An officer at the parking lot advised us not to walk all the way to the 5^th station and hike from there. It was too far, too dark, and too dangerous, in terms of bears.

We were left with no choice but to take the first bus at 3:30, watch the sunrise on the way, and try to return the car by 15:00, as our rental period ended then. Catching the sunrise from the summit – our original hope – was out of the question.

Moreover, the 5^th station parking lot was free, while Fuji Parking lot cost a fee.

A Portuguese couple soon showed up at the parking lot with the same problem. The “no private vehicles due to roadwork” issue wasn’t communicated anywhere.

We dozed off inside the car at 21:00, me in the front seat. The back seat was wider and more convenient. This week had been full of uncomfortable sleeping positions.

Today’s highlights: renting my first car; the steamed spinach bowl; driving through Tokyo and dark highways at night.

3 September 2023

• 30m taxi drive to Fuji Subashiri 5^th station
• Fuji-san Subashiri trail – going up (~7.5h)
• Fuji-san summit (1h)
• Fuji-san Yoshida trail – going down (~3.5h)
• 13:47-14:24 Fuji Subaru 5th station to Fuji-san parking lot bus
• Driving back to Tokyo

Climbing Fuji-san

We woke right before midnight. Saki noticed a taxi in the parking lot. We decided to take it and pay more than the bus to the 5^th station, rather than start hiking four hours from now. This way, we would catch the sunrise from the summit.

It was very annoying how instead of the original plan – driving all the way to Fuji Subaru 5th station, using the free parking lot there – we had to pay for Fuji Parking lot and a taxi instead. In regular years, this didn’t happen. But at least I got to sleep for 2.5 hours or so. I was a bit nervous about climbing with no sleep whatsoever.

We changed to warm clothes and hit the road. The mountain was pitch-black. Apart from the taxi’s headlights, there were no lights whatsoever to illuminate our path.

The taxi driver told us a chilling story involving the nearby Aokigahara, Japan’s Suicide Forest.

After thirty minutes, we arrived at Fuji Subashiri 5^th station. Subaru station was closed. Bafflingly so. It was the most popular station, leading to the easiest and most populated Yoshida trail.

Yoshida trail started at 2,500 meters altitude. Subashiri: 2,000 meters. So no sunrise from the top.

For the first three hours or so of our climb, we were alone. On a mountain in the dead of night.

We started at 1:10 am. The trail was steep and stony, quite challenging to traverse. No light whatsoever, apart from our flashlights.

It was dead silent, and I was on the lookout for bears.

We crossed a forest with the world’s scariest shrine and arrived at a clearing. The full moon shone bright. Lots of stars, none of which a camera could capture.

“Hey, Saki,” I joked in Japanese. “The moon is pretty.”

This was how the uber-shy Japanese person said “I love you”. In late April, Saki was the one who’d taught me that.

We walked slowly. Saki told me that my pace was too fast. Every hour or so, we stopped for a water and food break. We were tired. In need of as much energy as we could get.

My bag was weighing down on me as it hadn’t since climbing Korea’s Seoraksan. I was carrying food and four litres of water. It was harder than the ascent itself.

At 2,500 meters, one warm shirt from Uniqlo sufficed.

Around the 6th station, people started popping up. They’d probably begun hiking before us, or spent the night inside the shelter.

We reached the new 7th station at 4:15. Beginning of dawn. We watched the sky grow brighter and brighter as we ate. Brilliant orange, practically neon, bursting from behind the clouds. The Fuji Five Lakes area beneath us shrouded in more clouds.

From here, we reached the original, slightly higher 7^th station at 5:15, just in time for sunrise.

The weather was perfect. No rain, no wind, a few clouds. Excellent visibility. A monumental sunrise.

I found out the name of Saki’s late childhood friend; Omi’s older brother. Obviously not a piece of information to be communicated here. But it was connected to this mountain in a way as chilling as the taxi driver’s story.

The final stretch to the summit, from the 8th station onwards, was so steep and slippery, that people were descending it sideways, or even backwards.

Even with the blue sky, the full moon was still bright.

At 7:45, we reached the top. No trouble breathing, no ear pain, nor snow. With another warm fleece from Uniqlo, I was quite warm. The air didn’t feel much thinner.

At least half of the huge number of hikers on the mountain were Japanese – a fact I found flabbergasting. Japanese people rarely hiked. But when they did, they chose the tallest, most challenging mountain in their country.

In comparison, some of the foreigners were carrying national flags.

The Most Beautiful View I’d Seen

At 8:45, we stood on Kengamine peak: the 3,776 meters tall summit.

The only mountain in Japan where I’d seen a line to take a photo. In Korea, every single mountain featured a line during the weekend. The most popular ones, such as Bukhansan, on weekdays as well.

It was the best view I’d ever seen atop a mountain. Unkai – in Japanese, a sea of clouds. All beneath us, like a fluffy ocean stretching all the way to the horizon. And above it, a vivid, blue sky.

(The second and third places belong to Shodoshima’s Goishizan and Seoul’s Bukhansan.)

Standing on a piece of land so high above the clouds – reaching a place the human body was not supposed to reside in for too long – making it farther and higher than I’d ever been… and by foot, in addition to that, just by climbing…

Nature never ceased to astound me. Humanity never ceased to let me down.

Fuji-san’s crater was large and barren. A few shrines were sprinkled throughout the top of the mountain.

9:00 brought with it an hour-long food break. We boiled water for instant noodles and amazake powder. Saki had brought proper camping equipment along.

A little over an hour later, with bellies full and a nippy wind making us shiver, we started down. The Yoshida trail was an endless slope snaking down the mountain. Very steep, very slippery, very dusty (it was a volcano after all). Full of stones and a pale red terrain. It was so endless and excruciating to traverse without falling onwards, that at some point, we gave up and started running.

We were among the handful of souls who did that. 99% of the people we crossed treaded cautiously. My boots and pants got covered in red dust. Some entered my eyes, too. It was as fun as it was dangerous. And quicker, too.

There was no mountain in Japan like Fuji. Not just in terms of height, and reverence, and shape. The amount of people on it. Their diversity. From all over the Earth.

We crossed a spot where horses could be rented to go up the mountain. One or two guys did that.

Finally, at 13:30, we reached Fuji Subaru 5^th station.

Done.

The station was insanely crowded and foggy. Practically inside a cloud. I collapsed at this point, my bag was killing me. It wasn’t hard to breathe up on the mountain; it wasn’t too exhausting to climb. I was simply tired from lack of sleep and the weight on my shoulders. Just like in Seoraksan.

We dozed off during the bus ride to Fuji Parking lot, and freshened up at the parking lot’s toilet, changing all our dirty, warm clothes back to summer ones.

Back to Tokyo

Three and a half hours later, we arrived in Shinjuku station at 19:15. I slept throughout the entire car ride. They’d taken turns driving. I’d given Saki the coffee I’d bought before the hike.

So I hadn’t gotten around to attempting to drive in Japan myself. That was an experience I was willing, for the time being, to forgo. Maybe someday, when I didn’t hike Japan’s tallest mountain without sleeping much.

We returned the car and paid a hefty fee. Then it was time to devour tesihoku at a restaurant by the station, right in front of Omoide Yokocho (the good, cheap teishoku chain Saki had introduced me to in early May).

I found a relatively cheap capsule hotel for tonight at the last minute, in Shin-Okubo (Tokyo’s Koreatown – on my list since July).

At 21:00, we said goodbye. I walked 15 minutes to my capsule hotel, which was quite stylish, with a large sleeping pod.

I was a bit hurt that Saki didn’t invite me to stay over. Just like on the eve of climbing the mountain. Why did I expect him to accommodate me? He’d already done so three times since April. Yet he must’ve seen how exhausted I was, especially carrying a suitcase and three bags after climbing. If the tables were turned, I would’ve insisted he rested at my place.

I reminded myself that he didn’t owe me anything. No one did. Not to host me, not to reply to my messages, or to send a thank you note for a present. Let alone to acknowledge that I existed.

Perhaps Saki thought that now that I was working, I could afford accommodation. He didn’t know the company hasn’t been responding to me.

This weekend, I’d gone way over budget for the taxi ride, and the rental car’s late return fee, and so on. It scared me almost as much as the beginning of the trail, with the pitch-black woods and desolate shrine. The prospect of running into a bear – as terrifying as being stranded in Japan with zero in my bank account.

Soon, my life would amount to nothing, and I would find myself with no prospects, no options, no friends, no lovers, and no future.

Somehow, suicide had become a recurring topic while we were on the mountain.

I crashed on my sleeping pod’s mattress and dozed off before 22:00. Today marked four months in my favorite piece of land on this mortal planet.

Things I missed about Japan:

• Shinjuku station being the craziest, most chaotic transportation hub in the world
• Taxi passenger doors opening automatically

Things I did not miss about Japan:

• Getting lost inside Shinjuku station every single time I go there
• Tokyo being just a greenless behemoth of buildings
• Where are the lounges in Tokyo’s train stations? Where are the benches in the streets? Where am I supposed to rest for a moment? In a cafe? A restaurant? WHERE ARE THE SEATING AREAS!!!!!

Today’s highlights: the bright, full moon illuminating our vacant, silent trail up the dark mountain; watching the sky grow bright with dawn; the sun rising from the clouds; reaching the highest point in Japan, and the highest I’d ever been (and climbed too); the view of unkai; instant ramen and amazake on the crater; running down the pale red, rocky, sandy slopes; teishoku for a much-needed dinner; sleeping on a comfortable mattress for a change.

Saki had played this song to me on his guitar back in May. It was one of his favourites. On top of Mount Fuji, I could understand why.