My dear crazy friend Shizuka Watanabe lives next to the base of Mt. Fuji in a beautiful little port town called Shizuoka (I often think of Mork from Ork when I think of Shizuka from Shizuoka). We headed out of Tokyo by high speed train to meet an overly excited Shizuka at the train station, her arms open and running toward me. We hadn't seen each other in many, many years, since our days at Cornish in Seattle, where she studied classical piano, and, while lazy, could outplay us all (and still can) with her powerful little Japanese fingers.
Today we went strawberry picking on farms around where she lives, and I'm telling you -- I don't know if they inject sugar into each ripe berry hanging from the plants or what, but they are the most intensely sweet berries I've ever tasted. Matthew thought they were too sweet, but Shizuka and I, both ravenous sweet tooths who sat next to each other in class eating bags of red licorice, devoured dozens from plants that were loaded with huge juicy berries.
On the way back to her house, she detailed to Matthew my infamous sleeping pill laden suicide attempt toward the end of my Cornish days while swerving her car back and forth along winding roads, cackling and mumbling in her thick Japanese accent, "Nathan, you can't do anything right!" and then cackling some more.
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