Dinner with the Kimuras

June 28, 2012.

Stuck in traffic on a bus ride towards the city, sweat rolls down and drenches my shirt as I sat cramped together with a group of strangers. The discomfort of wet hair invoked a feeling of regret of failing to shorten it prior to the trip. The exhaustion took its toll on my weary eyes as I slowly shut them, falling asleep to the voice of a broadcaster speaking in rapid dialect.

I am enveloped in nothing but warmth and darkness.

YEEEAAAHHH!!!

A massive roar fills the bus like a sudden gunshot, waking me up with an unpleasant jolt. I silently cursed these people for disturbing my rest, for denying my need for peace.

My body then resumes to shut down again after this rude awakening, and yet, the subconscious chose to trouble me, as if trying to remind me of something. A battle ensues between mind and body, both internally debating against each other. It was a fight that lasted an eternity, up until I gave in to the clamor of my subconscious.

I then had finally recalled the most important event at that time: the football matches.

Though teary eyed and sapped in strength, I decided to stay awake just to see how this will unfold despite never having watched football myself. Though I never had the best understanding of the game or the language, the excitement itself should be a sight to behold.

I followed the broadcaster’s words and the people’s reactions as much as I could, waiting for the moment when I can witness the same passion again, like a fisherman expecting a tug in his line. The tension is ever present as the people anxiously wait as they continue to listen in.

And then it happened.

YEEEAAAHHH!!!

It was a glorious spectacle: fellow men and women roar again with even greater intensity and begin hugging each other from the ecstasy of a feat made by their home team, for their home country. My seatmate, oblivious to my lack of excitement, hugs me as well, and I hugged back awkwardly if only to give an even greater presence of camaraderie.

Not being a football fan myself, this is, in a way, an alien culture to me. Yet, I have become an indirect participant to a rather informal local event, but it was a wonderful vision forever stitched in my memories. I remind myself: this is why I travel, and this is why I keep moving.

In a sea of headlights and darkness, there is only this bus as its own independent city, the passengers as its locals, the celebration as its culture, and I, the tourist.

Italy beats Germany 2-1.