You know what the best thing about Japan is? Beer vending machines. They’re everywhere. On street corners, bus stops, everywhere–including ski resorts. In fact, there are beer vending machines at the bottom of the ski lifts. While you’re waiting in line you pop in a few Yen, get a brew, and slam it on the ride up the mountain.

When you ski back down you just tuck and run. You don’t sashe, you don’t turn, you don’t finesse–no. You tuck and you race your friends down the hill, buzzed, going mach 7. The only time you’re allowed to slow down, is if you find an incredible jump that you just have to launch over. If this is the case, you stop with all your buddies. You egg each other on, and you go as fast as you can. You SOAR! through the air, and wipe out. Then you all laugh, tuck, and run down the hill. While waiting in line you buy another beer, and slam it on the way back up the mountain. Do this all day.

Now, when you’re good and drunk, find the jump again. This time start farther up the hill than everyone else. When you land, make sure you twist your knee, and seriously fuck it up. That way your ship will leave you in Yokosuka, while your friends go to places like Fiji, Bali, and Australia.

This is what happened to me. I got stuck in Yokosuka, which is about an hour South of Tokyo. But you know what? I loved it.

You see, I met this gal while I was there. Junko Komae, Japanese girl. Short, sexy, funny. I fell head over heels in love with her. I was 20 years old. She was 36. We were inseperable.

We went places. She took me to the clubs in Tokyo. We went to gigantic waterparks with waterslides that put ours to shame. We went to the park, the beach, the ocean, the river, the countryside–everywhere.

I met her family. Her mother and father, her brother and sister. We ate dinner and drank sake and sang karaoke.

Japan started to feel like home. I wanted to stay soooo bad. I forgot all about Hayward. After my knee operation and rehab, I made every effort to stay in Japan. I managed to stay there for six months. Finally I got my orders from Washington. I was being shipped back to Long Beach.

Tom Bissell, 20. Junko Komae, 36. We were both very happy and still very much in love. Six month relationship. I’m being shipped back to the States.

I tried not to think about it. The date kept marching closer, ever closer. I tried to explain to Junko what was going on. It was difficult. Her English was bad, and my Japanese was worse. We communicated in a sort of 3-year-old kind of way (except in the bedroom). Finally the day was upon me.

We spent the night in a love hotel right outside the base. These things are all over Japan. You can rent them by the hour. The Japanese see nothing shady about this set up. To them it’s all part of their popular culture. So anyway, this love hotel place? Totally decked out rooms. Mirrors on the ceiling, pornos on the TV, basket full of condoms and lotions on the bedside, vibrating bed, all that. They even had room service.

That night I lay awake next to Junko, mind racing, as usual. I was resigned to my fate. I knew I couldn’t stay in Japan. I had to go home. Home. Isn’t this home? What the fuck is home, anyway?

In the morning she walked me back to the main gate of the Navy base. We said our goodbyes, my voice quivering, her eyes blootshot and watery. I put on my happy face and promised to call her as soon as possible, knowing full well that I’d never see her again. We parted ways, I turned towards the gate, and tried to keep it together. The tears started pouring down my face. I flashed my military ID, and turned away so the guards wouldn’t see me crying. When I had gotten a safe distance away, I sat down and lost myself in uncontrollable, hysterical sobbing.

Six hours later I was waiting for my flight out of Tokyo International; 20 hours later I landed at San Francisco International. One week later I was back in Long Beach.

Junko and I wrote and called each other for several months. As time went on we grew more distant, and eventually we stopped calling. Then I turned 21, and my social life exploded.

I still think about Junko, from time to time. She’s gotta be 48 years old now. I wonder if she remembers me?