"On the Michi" Part Three

Sunao reports: "Ore wa snowboarding CHO umaiZE, machigaine!" Translation: "I am fuckin' awesome at snowboading, make no mistake about that!"

This was the phrase that Nemo and I were forced to listen to for the duration of the two-hour bus-ride up to the mountain. Sunao was in rare form, making sure to inform us exactly where he stood in terms of his ability compared to ours'. The three of us had never skiied together, though, and where Nemo was humble about his experience and I confident about mine, Sunao downright assured us that he was better than all of us.

Yet, as we climbed higher and higher in the Hokkaido-ian mountains and the snow drifts grew more and more massive, Sunao's jabs quieted, as he realized that maybe, afterall, this was the real deal, no trip down a bunny hill. When we got to the resort and began renting equipment, Sunao also mentioned that he was, perhaps, a little ill-equipped in the area of snow-wear. Nemo and I agreed, as all Sunao wore was a giant cotton camoflauge jacket, a pair of thin nylon pants, a wool hat, and gardening-gloves. We politely suggested that maybe he ought to rent some snowboarder-wear. He knodded in agreement and suantered off to look at the resort's selection of rental jackets and water-proof pants. He soon returned and, having ignored our advice, his new wardrobe consisted of a clear plastic garbage sack worn over his original clothes, holes torn in it for his arms. It was, in short, a plastic tang-top, and he proudly explained that he was now water-proofed. Nemo and I, forecasting the possible amusement we could get of this (in the "I-told-you-so" kinda way), heartily agreed he was now dressed perfectly for the conditions, and we set out for the slopes.

An hour later, after falling down the first few runs, Sunao admitted that a.) maybe he was kinda, just a little, talking out of his ass that morning about how good he was and b.) that he was really fucking cold and wet. We all returned to the rental shop where he rented the proper gear, and we supervised the process this time to assure that he did not return with gobs of toliet paper wrapped around him in place of a jacket, saying that it would keep him warmer. Checking himself out in his new gear, Sunao offered:

"Don't I look SWEET now!?"
"Yes," we replied, "You DO look COOL. Finally."
"Machigaine!"

A gorgeous powdery snow fell hard that day, and by the afternoon, we were waist-deep in the best powder I have ever had in my life. And hailing from the ski-resorts of eastern Washington and western Idaho, this is no small statement. It was effortless, gliding through the soft granular snow. Your turns were already being made for you it seemed, and if you fell, it was into a giant, mountainous cushion of fluffy joy that ignored any possibility of pain or emabarrasment. The track under the chairlift we rode most of the day had not yet been touched, as Japanese skiiers and snowboarders will be damned if they go out of bounds, so Nemo and I thought, "fresh meat!"

The next run, we debarked from the lift, ducked our heads under the ropes, and were about to float down when the lift-operator...growled...at us. It was not a "you can't go down there," or a "that area's restricted!" It was:

"GRRRRRRRRRRRR!! GROOWWRRRRRRRRR!!"

This was enough to bring us back to the main runs. Halfway down, Nemo stopped and called me over to him.

"Hey, wait a minute. Did we just get growled at?"
"I'm afraid we did."
"Did he know we were foreigners?"
"I don't see how he could have."
"I can't believe he growled at us. Dick."

And we continued down. The rest of the day was spent in the much of the same manner: giggling and sliding down the pillowy slopes, spraying Sunao in the face when he fell, trying not to get growled at. Lumps of sugar on pine-tree arms.

When the resort's night-lights began to softly glow on the ubiquitous snow, we decided to finish up, and went down to the bottom to meet Nemo's two other friends. Gear was returned, and enthusiastic exclamations were made about the day's unbelievable conditions. Upon getting on the return bus to Sapporo, Sunao immediately zonked out, and Nemo and I had a nice, catching-up kind of chat as we returned to the city. Everyone, it seemed, had reached that euphoria that is attained only when there is a perfect collision between exhausted-ness and ultimate satisfaction.

When we reached Sapporo, were all desparately hungry. I myself had somehow made it through the day with only a rice-ball and a granola bar in my system, Sunao just on coffee and a few pieces of candy. Deciding that we could not possibly wait to eat, we went straight to a nice restaurant where we had already made reservations the night before. Walking into the restraunt was a scene--our nylon pants sweeeeeshing louldy, hairs sticking straight-up from sweat and moisture as we took off our ski-hats, snowboards and skiis were stashed in the corner. The other guests made a conscious effort to ignore our ruged-ness, but were visibly jealous at the look of comradery that comes from shared-contentment. Dark beers were ordered, and we relaxed into the night.

Next to our table was a group of young Japanese women, who were talking loudly about their breasts. Nemo, who is always encouraging me to show my magic tricks to strangers, suggested that I go over and put on short show for them. In anticipation, he had secretly bought a deck of cards at a convenient store right before we came in. I smiled at the idea, but shook it off out of shyness and the desire to just relax with my beer: "Nawww. Not tonight, man."

However, I quickly found myself forcibly picked up by Suano, him guiding me over to the table with his arm around my shoulders. He kindly asked for the girls' attention, and then informed them that he was seriously turned-on by their previous conversation regarding the size of their breasts. This, somehow segwayed into his introduction of me, a professional magician who has not only been on T.V. but who has traveled around the world earning his living as a street-performer. I had no idea I did that, but the girls cheered and giggled loudly (as only Japanese girls can do) and I put on a short show for them. Luckily, it went over quite well, and at the end I found myself having pictures taken of me with their cell-phones, and them writing my name down should I appear on Japanese T.V. someday. They said they were rooting for me; I even signed an autograph.

(Another side-note: isn't that what a true friend is, someone who unfailingly knows and understands your talents and good points, and furthermore is always pushing you to pass them on to others, even if, initially, you don't want to do it?)

To the relief of all, we left the restaurant in much better shape than we had the previous night, and we returned to our capsules without incident. Nemo remembered to wrap a towel around him before we made the trip to the spa, and we all chipped in and kept a tight watch on his key. Before entering the giant bath, I was shampooing my hair at one of the washing stations, and it was quite curious that the more I rinsed my hair of the shampoo I had put in, the more it lathered on my head. It got to be too much--my head was a giant foam ball, it was running down into my eyes, and I seriously thought it was some crazy-ass shampoo the hotel staff had placed in the bottle out of revenge for Nemo's hairy-nakedness the night before. But then I heard giggling, turned around, and found the 28-year-old Sunao with a giant bottle of Shampoo, half of which he admitted to having dumped in my hair. It took me about thiry minutes to completely wash it out, and even then it still lathered a little.

The rest of the night, the three of us sat in the giant hot-spring, shooting the shit as we were prone to do. It all seemed so new and fresh, and that's exactly the way we went to bed and woke up the next morning before we left for Niseko ski resort.