I like sharing wavelengths. I like people who try new things. Even sick things, like eating raw horsemeat. Basashi is what they call it here. Horse Sashimi. This restaurant we went to was on TV because of its tasty basashi and Houtou. "Hoto" is how you say faggot in Spanish. My dad said it once when he declared the reason why he waits by the dryers while his laundry finishes is because he doesn't want those "hotos down the hall touching them." However, Houtou is also a delicious soup that may just be vegetarian. There was my favorite lil pumpkin, kabocha, floating above the noodles when the hot pot was placed in the middle of the table. The noodles are flat and wider than linguine but not as slippery as udon. There were strange roots and veggies that i hadn't recognized from any other soups I've had in Japan, so I suggest you eat it if you ever wander through the groves of Yamanashi-shi.
One highlight of the excursion was when I stood at the window wearing a horse's head, peering into the restaurant. I felt bad minutes later when he said that we probably ruined everybody's dinner. I didn't mean to do that. Minna-san, gomen.
And in the midst of troubles and distractions, a time will come when everything is still and perfect. Similar to the phenomenon that one is rarely conscious of the passing of consistencies, like breathing, blinking, thinking. Until suddenly, the temperature drops or sand blows in your face, or you see something that makes you stop and stare, and completely forget the last thirty thoughts that rushed their way through your head. And they never return.
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