Seeing that unleaded gasoline has climbed to $3.24 a gallon, I have not the enthusiasm from last year about attending the annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at UCLA. But upon N.'s insistence that she will drive we left about 10 in the morning. Although the cloudy grey sky afforded not a shaft of sun light, the morning air was rather stuffy, the kind of weather that tells you to bring a light jacket that will never be used. We stopped at a convenience store to stock up on drinks and snacks for our little expedition to Westwood. As I exit the store and walked toward N.'s Volvo, I noticed her hands clenching the steering wheel, her face a brooding look. "What, again with the constipation?" was my instinctive question. She let out a little laugh. "I was just thinking, it has been almost five months since his accident. And yet, I have recovered well, almost too well."

"Not well enough to start dating," I said. "That means you haven't completely recovered."

"I think it will still be a while before I put myself on the market again. I just can't deal with that for the time being. But what I mean is that, life went on like nothing happened: I eat, I sleep, I laugh, all without great difficulties, and I am a little confused by it." She paused for a short moment, as if to gather her thought, but swallowed at the last second of whatever she was going to say.

We made way onto the 405 freeway, passing innumerable featureless Los Angeles architectures and scenery. Along the way we remain relatively quiet; if we talked, it was only small talk about our expectation of this year's book festival. Upon approaching Westwood, the area turned into a cluster of vehicles. The left-turning lane was backup for miles. We had to drive few blocks down and make an u-turn to get to the outlying parking lot. From there we had to take the bus to the festival, which I did not mind at all. When we got on the bus the seats were empty for our choosing; but at the next stop came on a swarm of riders and mix of body odors . This reminded me of Taipei, of living in a city where I am oblivious to the price of unleaded gasoline. The bus ride was short, and I almost wanted to tell N. that maybe we could just reminisce a little more of the ride. I kept my gaze at the passing Westwood Village and UCLA dormitories, at the gleaming million dollar high-rise apartments , till the bus reached our intended stop.

It was as if they never bothered to take down last year's festival settings and banners, because everything remain the same. The same Canadian tourism booth; the same $5 sale booth that always attracted the largest number of buyers; the same angry political activists yelling at the microphone. We were both a bit disappointed; and since we are not familiar with the author speakers, we had no interest in attending. We made an effort of going around every single booth at the festival, but it was clear that 90% of them had nothing to do with our literary taste. We found some decent paperback of Proust, Flaubert, Henry James, Virginia Woolf and Salman Rushdie at $ 5 each.

At noon the sky gave no hint of being one except for the rising temperature and humidity. We chose a big expanse of grassy hill, overlooking the south end of the festival, thronged by readers of all ages, and sat down for a little refreshment. N. went on to talk about her troubles; I went on a tangent about how I enjoyed the cozy bus ride. Then all of a sudden, N. said peremptorily: "I think he was cheating on me, and I suspect a girl at the funeral as his other girlfriend."

I did not at first know how to respond to this posthumous information. I went on sipping my coca cola. "He is dead. I am not sure if his having a side girlfriend will do any thing to help you feel better or not. You shouldn't bother yourself with it." I closed the conversation by reading the last few pages of Never Let Me Go, hiding the fact that I knew just a few months ago from a friend in Taiwan that this piece of information was indeed creditable.

Tags: Los Angeles, Festival of Books, N, UCLA

Every other week, a check would be deposited into my checking account, the amount would always be the same, and it was long ago that I stopped checking the number. I don't get to see the actual money a whole lot, for they are usually electronically sent out to places where services were rendered on my behalf. I do occasionally see them in physical form from my weekly $40 ATM withdrawal; but usually they are just some electronic number stored in a bank. It is a pity, I have always thought, that even though I worked hard for them for 40 hours a week, they provide no realization of anything tangible. Sure, they do their job just as well as real money, by keeping gasoline in my car and a roof over my head, but something seems missing. Instead of realizing dreams, the numbers are merely a tool of subsistence, of which the living had became tedious and dull. Yet day after day I perpetuate the daily going by furrowing brow at work and curse silently at disagreeable superiors. 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, 8-5, fives times a week, the same s#$% would repeat itself, all under my watch.

Little consolation result from my attending graduate school. Graduate level courses demand a different set of ingenuity that my introverted personality so sorely lacks. Although first semester is coming to an end and I am in no danger of failing, instead of feeling triumphant or relief, a re-confirmation of my social-network ineptness is dragging my spirit down the sewage, swimming along with brown waters. I tried to compensate my social ineptness by studying hard for tests, but an B average student will always be an B average, as evidenced by my earning Bs in my first courses.

Well, life isn't so bad as I purport to be, like having lunch at that particular Chinese beef noodle place, of which none of my non-Taiwanese co-workers are willing to partake; or when in the afternoon a flock of certain colorful birds would form a choir and chirp for hours just outside of my big window at the office; or when I got to know a group of diverse and funny and smart people in classes, expanding my narrow universe just a bit wider. With Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go in hand, I chose a shady spot under a skinny maple tree and listened to the rustling tree. Soon the sound of a low flying airplane pressed upon my ears, reminding me that life is still worth living -- for now.

Tags: Trifle, Life, Never Let Me Go, Grad School,

"I always lacked common sense when taken by surprise."

The sentence was taken from Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey, when Agnes refused an open umbrella, offered by Mr. Weston, the curate, under a light rain fall. Under similar context, what took place at the secondhand bookstore earlier today will have me writhe in regret. Will it end like the novel does?

Tags: Regret, Agnes Grey, Trifle

The nondescript wooden shack was pronounced by the surrounding concrete buildings, giving the prim-looking street a small touch of humility. I made a habit of going there for late night ramen during the three nights of stay at a hotel nearby. Every night, upon my going there, snow drifted, heaping on an already thick layer of snow on the roof. From outside, in the cold, one could see through the window, through the warm luminescence, in which the cook ministered to the boiling of noodle and the soup that goes in later. The seating was only few, laid out in a bar style; and every night only few men can be seen there, each sucking loudly of his ramen and beer.

The cook was a man of middle age, slightly over middle height, serving mediocre ramen (according to the hotel receptionist) that my uncultivated taste bud considered well enough. His face was square, perhaps too pronounced to be considered aesthetically; but perfect for a setting as such. He held a penetrating gaze at you whenever he handed over the bowl of ramen, an unmovable stoutness that bespoke stubbornness. The ramen soup and the beer warmed my stomach like nothing before.

The young waitress, perhaps his daughter, shared none of that intractableness the father had, comported herself in a quite, genial stride. She inherited her father's facial feature with a softened edge, by which she might be considered attractive in her own ways. Despite the drudge of menial work, she was always willing to supply that giddy smile of which I came to appreciate in my three visits there.

The dreaded date on the return ticket to LAX is fast approaching, rendering the last night of stay in Hokkaido ever more poignant. The voluptuous snowfall quickened its drifting motion downward, at a furious pace. I paid and went out joyously into the bitter cold for as long as I could, savoring the threefold luxury of travel, snow and melancholy.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, Travel

Noboribetsu (登別) was blanketed by a fine and substantial layer of snow by the time I finished the evening bath; and having just walked and ate my several rounds at the crab buffet dinner, a stroll in the snowy darkness was tempting enough despite the howling cold wind. Just beneath the hotel are rows of souvenir shops and convenience stores and restaurants, in which more or less the same products are offered and price variation does not fluctuate enough to justify taking the time for comparison. I took a borrowed umbrella, shielding from falling snow, and took each step carefully over the snow-covered slippery pavement. An underground canal is located right next to the hotel, in which the gushing of water toward the lower plain can be heard distinctively: it sounded clean, with a hollowness to it.

The distance between the hotel and the shop streets was of short, but the semi-darkness that demarcated the two was made more poignant by the running water and the snow. Emerging out of the darkness, the streets offered a teeming and cozy atmosphere where tourists like myself are prone to spend hard-earned dollars on kitschy things to take home. The streets seemed more remarkable from the top of the hotel, where the warmth softened my perception with a mawkish gauze; and having browsed four different souvenir stores with identical selections, my eyes grew weary, but the falling snow, a novelty in Los Angeles and Taipei, soon recovered my enthusiasm. I purchased a hot coffee laden with sugar and cream from the convenience store, and found a bench to sit down, adoring the white world around. "Wouldn't it be nice to live in a place like this?" the thought conjured a mental mirage that will have lodged in my mind for long, long time.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, travel, Noboribetsu, 登別, snow

On a mildly cool afternoon I sauntered along the airy canal and manifold shops of Otaru, savoring the sight and sound of things around, cherishing the last few days of stay in Hokkaido. A kitten, on the sidewalk opposite of mine, was about the cross the busy street, where cars and light trucks traveled on both directions at a rather high pace. I let out a gasp, seeing the kitten stamping his paws on the road when cars on both directions were closing in. My entrails convulsed at the thought of the kitten being crushed by the oncoming traffic. Fortunately, a loud squeaking braking sound was heard: traffic on both ends came to a temporary halt. The kitten huddled into a small furry ball, frozen in the middle of the road. The drivers let out a chorus of car horn and shouting and proceeded the kitten to the safety of the sidewalk. Tragedy averted, right in front of me. I regrouped from my momentary pasty appearance, made a murmuring sound toward the kitten, but enticed nothing. The kitten dashed for the narrow alley, in search of his fancy. "Good luck, kitten," I murmured, as the kitten disappeared into the distant alley. I consciously smiled on in watching the kitten venture on in life: a smile that is genuine and unaffected. I walked on toward the south end of the canal, relishing the sweet air of travel, feeling a bit better about the world.

Catching a bus back to Sapporo, a sense of doziness gradually overtook my faculty, I put down the novel, head resting on the bus window, and slept all the way back, perhaps with my mouth open. The sky was heavy with cloud by the time the bus arrived in the city, and the air imbued with wetness. After checking in at the Renaissance, I strolled around the streets, rode the subway just because I miss riding it, rub shoulders with Japanese high schoolers at the train station, blending into the mass of black hair, lost myself in the gait of the city. Utilizing the calm before the impending heavy rain, I stopped by the Old City Hall, Tokeidai, and Odori Park, taking in whatever sight and sound that were there, for my days of escaping reality were coming to an end soon. With a bit of an effort I found a twilit cafe with wireless connection. I ordered a cup of coffee together with a cream puff that was too big for my appetite, at once to write down the happening of the past few days before they escape from memory. Rain by now were pouring down hard and, with enough moisture in the air, snow seemed imminent. The panoramic glass window offered an unobtrusive view from the 3rd floor, where each sumptuous raindrop can be observed spattering the city. The clinking sound of silver spoon stirring coffee made me realize that I am unable to reflect the blissfulness of the past few days into words.

Tags: Hokkaido, 北海道, Japan, Travel, Otaru, 小樽, Sapporo, 札幌