Chapter 2 (Episode 2) : a Foreigner Trying Very Hard to Blend In
Back down from the mountain, hunger arrived with the confidence of someone who knew I had no choice but to listen.
Near the road stood a small restaurant with fogged-up windows. Inside, warmth wrapped around me immediately, along with the unmistakable smell of miso and something fried.
Inside, the restaurant felt like it was holding its breath.
Behind the counter stood a woman and a man, both wrapped in soft white aprons the color of dried apricot blossoms, quietly busy with their work at the stove. They moved with the kind of wordless coordination that comes only from years of doing the same thing together—no rush, no wasted motion, no need to speak.
There were only two tables.
One was occupied by a local guest who looked like he had been coming here since the mountain was younger.
The other, naturally, was mine.
Apart from the gentle clink of chopsticks and the low hum of the heater, the room was almost silent. So quiet, in fact, that I could hear water boiling softly somewhere in the kitchen—an honest, comforting sound, like the restaurant was breathing for all of us.
I sat there trying my best to look like I belonged: coat folded neatly, posture polite, nodding occasionally at absolutely nothing. The locals mastered the art of being invisible; I, on the other hand, mastered the art of pretending not to be cold while still hugging my jacket just a little too tightly.
No music.
No menu explanations.
Just the smell of miso, hot oil, and something earthy rising gently from the kitchen—an unspoken promise that whatever arrived at my table would be warm, filling, and probably better than anything I deserved after complaining about the wind all morning.
She smiled anyway. Japanese kindness is wonderfully forgiving.
The menu was entirely in Japanese. I nodded slowly, pretending to understand, as if careful observation alone might unlock fluency. Eventually, I pointed with polite confidence and ordered tororo udon and wakasagi tempura, the universal language of “this looks safe.”
When the tororo udon arrived, I stared into the bowl.
The noodles were covered in a glossy, pale substance that defied classification — somewhere between soup, sauce, and something you might accidentally step on in the forest. This, I learned, was grated yamaimo (mountain yam). I hesitated for half a second, then reminded myself: You came all this way. Don’t insult the mountain.
I took a bite.
The texture was… adventurous.
Sticky, slippery, slightly rebellious.
The flavor, however, was gentle and comforting — like the mountain itself saying, “Yes, it’s strange, but you’ll survive.”
I ate it carefully, watching how locals lifted their noodles, copying the rhythm, trying not to look like someone negotiating with gravity. No slurping mastery yet, but I felt I was making progress.
Then came the wakasagi — tiny fish from Lake Haruna, fried crisp and golden. One bite and suddenly everything made sense. Crunchy, light, perfect with a squeeze of lemon and a sip of hot green tea. This was the kind of food that quietly apologizes for the weather.
By the time I finished, my body had warmed, my pride had recovered, and I felt one step closer to blending in — or at least less obviously lost.
That night, back in my small hotel room in Takasaki, I lay on the bed replaying the day: the wind, the shrine, the slippery noodles, and my ongoing attempt to behave like a local who definitely knew what they were doing.
I still couldn’t feel my ears properly.
But I fell asleep smiling.
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