Holiday at Toscana

   

I rented the Fiat 500 and a white/red Gabriola in Rome and arrived in Persia.

18 years ago, Hidetoshi Nakata became a legend by scoring 2 goals against Juventus on his first match at Serie A.

A simple stadium at a simple town.

In 2001, as I was walking down the road of Morocco, many people called out to me saying, Nakata!

A player from Umbria, a countryside of Italy, became famous in North Africa via satellite.

I realized the power of soccer and the power of satellites.

15 years later, I was at the site.

A place of pilgrimage. Assisi. Umbria, Etruria, Rome, Eastern Goths, Kingdom of Langobardorum, Frank, Persia, history of governance by the pope.

Anywhere you go around here, the history is similar.

The numerous rampart villages and alleys tell the story.

Enter Siena of Toscana from Umbria.

The headquarters of Monte Dei Paschi, the oldest bank in Italy.

From the left you will see baroque, gothic, and renaissance buildings from 14 – 16c.

Sophisticated Toscana.

I will never forget how the director from the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications said “I can’t trust Americans or Italians” during a negotiation to liberate telecommunications between Japan and America in 1985.

Maybe these Americans visiting Toscana is the last people he can trust.

But they are good people.

・・・Castiglione

Church, plaza, sound of the bell, stone pavement, waving emblem on the flag, upper roads that connect houses, curio, shoes, bags, lace, jewelry, glass art, pottery, miniatures, old books, olive oil. I love them.

It must’ve been a lot of work to build fortresses and churches on a mountain like this.

・・・Castirano Dolche

As I get bored of driving, I think about Italian names that end with Ni.

Fellini, Pasolini, Antonioni, Taviani, Mastroianni, Puccini, Armani, Modigliani, Marconi, Mussolini, Berlusconi...

I ran out of ni, so I will move on to Italian names that end with i.

Bisconti, Totti, Inzaghi, da Vinci, Versce, Vivaldi, Ferrari, Machiavelli, Botticelli, Bertoucci, Montessori...  Pienza

Next, Italian names that end with o.

Michelangelo, Galileo, Baggio, Caravaggio, Gattuso, Del Piero, Sandro Lopopolo, Renzo Piano, Umberto Eco, Ferragamo, Girolamo... Cortona

Arriving in the mountains, I stayed at a renovated post office from the 15^th century.

The hot spring in the back dates back to the Roman period.

I wish they would renovate old post offices in Japan too.

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Sicily and Noboribetsu

Column for those involved with the post office

The neck of the marlin stared at me. Unfamiliar fish that look like a small shark or a sea robin stared at me too. The Palermo market is packed with seafood from the Tyrrhenian Ocean. On a closer look, you might think the fish were smiling at you. I probably felt they were staring at me because I convinced myself that Sicily was a hiding den for mafia members.

The ocean, and the mafia. Yes, I remember something like that from earlier. Remember. 25 years ago. I was working at Noboribetsu in Hokkaido. I was in my later 20s. I was a director at a postal office.

A staff dove into the office screaming, “delivery mistake!” Apparently, they delivered an important party invitation to a succession of a mafia leader to a different office and they are panicking.

Oh no. We are 100% at fault. We have no choice but to apologize, but I wonder what waits us after that. Would they take one of our arms? I am not sure. But there was no time to wonder. I took the biggest gift box for customers in the director’s room and headed to the mafia’s office with a section chief who was about to retire.

It was a house next to the ocean. We opened the door to find a topless skinhead man sitting on top of a stage. Next to him were young members, giving him a massage along his elegant tattoos. It was the boss.

Oh no. I feel so overpowered. But the boss talked calmly. The young members yelled and the boss calmed them down. We just kept apologizing. Staring at the tea in front of us, we just kept bowing.

Boss: “I am not asking you. I am asking the director.” No, I am the director. “Don’t be ridiculous young one.” No, it’s true. There is this system at the post office. I just came from Tokyo. “What, so you’re an elite?” Yes, no, well, my mother raised me herself, I graduated college and before I knew it I was at the post office.

“Why are you staring at the tea cup.” Well, I was wondering if I would get hit if I drink the tea. Or maybe I would get hit for being rude if I don’t drink the tea.”

Then everyone laughed out loud. We drank tea. “What did you bring us.” Yes, this is a gift. “I know, what is it?” Ah, well I grabbed what I could from the post office. “Is it cash?” No, there is a lot of cash at the post office but I don’t think so. I opened it. It was a towel. “Oh, it’s just a towel.” Yes, well, it is a towel.

Maybe they thought I was weird. They asked me lots of questions about labor union counter measures at the post office. “Looks like you have it pretty tough too.” They wouldn’t let us go home. But at the end, they gave us a ride back to the post office in their car. The other staff, worried about us, seemed surprised.

It was scary. All I did was drink tea. It was a few hours but I’m sure I lost weight. Today, it is a story I can laugh about on the shores of Sicily. Dangerous work, scary experiences, they all become stories to tell. Maybe. Just like that, the day goes by.

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Bangkok and Shizuoka

Column for those involved with the post office

Beer and grilled banana, 15 yen per stick. As I was enjoying a mysterious lunch, water came flowing in around my feet. I guess the river I see over there is overflowing. The radio is saying the bank is about to give in.

The old lady cooking the bananas pointed to her bare feet and smiled, showing her gold teeth. Is she saying she will be okay because she is barefoot? Naked children came out of their houses screaming and dove into the mud water. The parents looked like they were saying, ah, what a nice playground.

Wait, wait. That’s not right. We have to get out of here. This is the big flood in Bangkok that’s going to be on the news in Japan later. A university in Thailand asked me to give a lecture and the locals said it would be okay so I came to Bangkok, but it is not okay. I asked around and found out all Japanese companies evacuated. Oh, so I guess I’m alone.

But something about this feels nostalgic. It is similar to the scenery I saw as a child.

I lived in Shizuoka back in the days. Nearby was Abe River and on the riverbed there were barracks with rocks on the roofs. I always played with kids from there. When typhoons came, we were taken into the house and we even nailed the window blinds in. Then the next day, I went to the river and found the barracks flattened.

They would soon be homeless, but they didn’t seem to care. They screamed and played in the water. I joined them and chased after pigs and watermelons that got out after the storm. The water level had increased and it was dangerous, but there was no tension. It was really fun. We were all poor. It’s actually quite nice when everyone is poor.

Then, my family business did not work out and we ran from home. My family got to Kyoto. Running away from home is a form of running away. You cannot let others know. You might know this if you have experience, but it means losing all your friends at once. That really upset me.

Your living standards dropping or leaving behind belongings is one thing, but abandoning friends I used to play with at the riverbed and being isolated from the community and communication is much worse.

But somehow, my mother told my teacher about it. After a while, as I was going to school in Kyoto with my head down, I got a package. Everyone in my class, including friends I played with at the riverbed, wrote me a letter.

Letters written by children are not that sophisticated. But each one of them thought about me and wrote it. I did not lose the community or communication. I was grateful. I still remember feeling, I am not alone.

I haven’t shown these letters to anyone. It’s my treasure.

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