Hokkaido Highway Blues

scatter. They fall like confetti, and in their passing they leave the dark green shimmering heat of summer, the wet misery of the rainy season, the typhoons of late August. At their peak—at full blossom and full beauty— the sakura last only a few days.
    During their brief explosion, the cherry blossoms are said to represent the aesthetics of poignant, fleeting beauty: ephemeral, delicate in their passing. The way to celebrate this poignancy, naturally, is to drink large amounts of saké and sing raucous songs until you topple over backward. It is all very fleeting and beautiful.
    It is also oddly formalized. In what other nation would you find a memo posted on a company’s cafeteria notice board that reads: KEEP THIS AREA CLEAN. FINAL REPORTS ARE DUE FRIDAY. AND DON’T FORGET, WE ARE GOING CHERRY BLOSSOM VIEWING AFTER WORK TODAY.
    In addition to the usual public parks and castle grounds, cemeteries are sometimes chosen as suitable spots for cherry blossom parties—as a counterpoint to the celebrations, and as a reminder that this beauty, this joy, like all things will pass. We live in a world of impermanence, a world of flux and illusion, a world brimming with sadness—so we might as well get pissed and enjoy ourselves. (Or at least, that’s how I read the underlying Buddhist theology.)
    In addition to Cherry Blossom Viewing, you have Moon Viewing, Snow Viewing, Wildflower Viewing, Autumn Leaf Viewing, and Summer Stargazing. All are formally engaged in, and all follow set procedures and seasons. As a service to readers, I have prepared a handy chart listing each phenomenon, the season in which it appears and the correct manner in which to observe it:
     
P HENOMENON
S EASON
P ROPER W AY TO V IEW
Cherry blossoms
Spring
Drunk on saké
Wildflowers
Summer
Drunk on saké
Harvest moon
Autumn
Drunk on saké
Autumn leaves
Autumn
Drunk on saké
Snow on ancient temples
Winter
Drunk on saké
     
    In the late nineteenth century, a British scholar noted that if one could just reconcile the lofty heights of Japanese ideals with the earthy limitations of its people, one would truly understand the essence of this beguiling nation. Not surprisingly, he left Japan a bitter and frustrated man. Me, I don’t even begin to understand the countless contradictions of Japan, but when the cherry blossoms come every spring I am swept away nonetheless.
     
    * * *
     
    My first two years in Japan were spent teaching English in high schools on the remote Amakusa Islands. The job had its perks. An absurdly large salary for one, and the camaraderie of my fellow teachers for another. The students, however, were another story. They studied English—or I should say, English was taught in their presence. Nothing ever seemed to sink in. Years of classes and endless tests and still they couldn’t master the intricacies of a simple “How are you?” When I tried to have the most elemental of English conversations with them they looked at me with blank expressions, shrugged their shoulders, and said “Wakaranai. ” (“Huh?”) They did this, I believe, just to annoy me. Don’t get me wrong, these teenagers were polite and studious and well-mannered, but they were still teenagers, and teenagers are pretty well insufferable anywhere you go on this planet.
    It was after school that I enjoyed myself. In Japan, teachers, priests, and policemen are traditionally the most lecherous, hard-drinking segments of society, and the teachers I worked with certainly lived up to their part of the bargain. The highlight of the year was the Faculty Cherry Blossom Viewing Party. We would crowd in under a stand of cherry trees, officially to view the flowers and reflect on the transience of life, but in reality as an excuse to blow off steam, spread malicious gossip, quaff great quantities, and flirt shamelessly with each other. At least, that’s why I went.
    The parties were always great fun—or until you sobered up the next morning and discovered that somehow you had managed to run up a two-hundred-dollar tab the night before. (That absurdly large salary came in handy at times.) The best parties were held at night, with the spray of sakura lit up by spotlights and with dozens of competing parties camped out beneath the trees. I even composed a haiku of my own while I sat, inspired by blossoms and beer, as all around me revelry and madness reigned. When I recited my poem, my Japanese colleagues were deeply moved:
     
    Early spring—
    Blossoms fall like