Epilogue – On the Flight Home
At 10 p.m., as the plane hummed softly before takeoff, I found myself thinking — not about work, not about emails waiting in Bangkok — but about everything I had eaten in Gunma.
Not the carefully planned dishes from my checklist, of course.
Mostly the random ones that ambushed me along the way.
The yamaimo udon, slippery and a little too honest about its texture, still lingered on my tongue.
The Yayoi sliced pork in Takasaki — impossible to forget, the kind of dish that sneaks into your dreams.
Even the story of the fox and kitsune soba replayed in my head, as if the noodles had tried to teach me folklore.
And the wakasagi, the tiny fish from Lake Haruna — I swear I could still feel the crispness between my teeth.
As the cabin lights dimmed, my mind drifted again to Gunma’s wind — the sharp, mountain kind that could freeze your ears and rearrange your hairstyle in one blow.
I remembered Kusatsu, the steam rising from the onsen like a living creature, the first sting of hot water before your body surrendered and softened completely.
Ahh, iyashi — that Japanese kind of healing you don’t realize is happening until you step outside and feel new again.
I also thought about the vending machines — so many of them. Hot drinks, cold drinks, mysterious drinks… I probably tried only 2% of Japan’s national beverage offerings. Another reason to return.
But more than landscapes and food, what stayed with me were the people.
Like the bus driver on the way to Lockheart Castle.
I boarded confidently, blissfully unaware that my IC card balance had quietly run out somewhere between optimism and reality.
Only when I got off did the truth reveal itself.
The driver looked at me — not angrily, but with the exhausted expression of a man who had seen too many unprepared travelers in one lifetime.
I imagined his thoughts:
“Why do they come so far and bring so little planning?”
I handed him cash and asked him to top up the card.
He did it, professionally, though his face suggested he was very much ready to finish his shift and go home.
An hour later, having decided (quite suddenly) that one visit was enough, I boarded the very last bus back — the only option left.
The doors opened.
The same driver.
This time, he smiled.
Same face, same man, but now with the gentle amusement of someone watching a predictable story complete its circle.
A foreign traveler, slightly confused, but harmless. We both survived the day.
Or the two elderly restaurant owners who smiled as if they had known me for years.
Small gestures, tiny kindnesses — the true flavor of traveling in Japan.
It wasn’t just the beauty of the mountains or the temples or the city lights.
It was the way each meal, each encounter, each unexpected moment told a little story.
Somewhere between Gunma’s quiet roads and Tokyo’s chaos, I had fallen — properly fallen — for this journey.
As the plane lifted off the runway, I looked out the window and whispered,
「また来るね。」-(Mata kuru ne)
I’ll be back.
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