I'll get off at a distant station... Wakkanai

The train emerged from behind the hill, and I stopped breathing. We had reached the sea. It began five hundred meters away from me and stretched endlessly to the horizon. I had arrived in Wakkanai.

Mikio and I had agreed to meet at three in the afternoon, near McDonald's. I had no idea where McDonald's was in this town, but I said I'd find it. It was only 1:00 PM on my watch, so I needed to figure out how to spend the time. Some Danish guy helped me carry the box outside. He was traveling around Hokkaido with his wife and two kids. It was cloudy outside, but pleasant. What to do? I looked at the bike box like a coffee stain on white pants. Then it hit me. The next minute, with my player in my ears, dancing a bit, I was tearing up the top of the box.

People walked by, some stopped to watch. One old Japanese man came over to chat, stood right next to me side by side, pointed at the bike frame and said something in Japanese. — What? — I asked. He apparently noticed I wasn't Japanese, raised his eyebrows, took a step back and nodded his head, muttering in Japanese.

A girl rode up on a bicycle, also with touring bags, and parked it next to the wall. She smiled. I smiled back. The bike arrived in one piece, nothing bent or broken. And while I was tightening the last bolts, the girl next to me had already disassembled her bicycle. I got curious about how she was preparing it for travel. — I want to see how you pack your bike, — I crouched down. — Is that a Surly? (a famous American touring bike company). — Oh! You know Surly? — She perked up and even jumped in place. — Of course I know Surly!

She was from Osaka, just back from an island... near Wakkanai, where she'd spent several days. I told her about my plans in return. — Wait a second. — I went to my bag and started looking for a business card. The girl, seeing what I was taking out, jumped with joy and, clapping her hands, ran to her bag. That's how artist Miriki and I exchanged business cards.

Bike assembled, hands washed. Like a stallion that just had its saddle removed, I was doing circles around the square by the station. Had to find McDonald's. I took off my headphones and only then heard the seagulls crying.

Mikio met me right at three, in his car, and we drove to his house. — You'll sleep here tonight. — He pointed to a window on the second floor. On the first floor he had a traditional Japanese restaurant where he worked from five to 11 PM. — Where should I put the bicycle? — Leave it here, it's safe! Near the sea is dangerous! — Why? — Russian fishermen. — He laughed.

Russian fishermen really had caused trouble here in their time. They walked around drunk, stole bicycles, stole from stores. According to my father's stories, who's been going to sea for 30 years now, many establishments in Wakkanai used to have signs saying "Foreigners not allowed."

It was five in the evening, I was tired and lay down, as usual "for an hour," and woke up at one in the morning.