Travel – KensView

思鄉 (Homesick)

山谷如有待
平水月近人
一雁入天陰
狗吠深巷中
自顧無長策
心事恐蹉跎
異客在異鄉
故國夢重歸

The hills and valleys seem to wait for
The moon to approach on still waters.
A lone goose flies in the darkening sky
While a dog barks down the lane.
As for me, with no greater plan,
I fear that I’m just marking time.
A foreign guest in a foreign land,
I return home in my dreams.

The Watch

At night, I climb the lone path to the promontory
The forest ends, the sky opens
I glance out, my spirit soars
Sea waves wash the feet of wind-combed cliffs

With moonlight for guide
Wisps of predawn mist shuttle across the horizon
The goddess of night seductively beckons
Her company cordially declined

She ascends to her heavenly lair
The black veil lifted
The passage for Apollo’s golden chariot is again assured
Vigilant I stand awaiting news from the far-off east.

Sunrise at Yeliu Park

Dawn sun lights the cliffs of Yeliu
Reflecting rays dart to and fro
While ocean waves churn blue and green
A crane stops to drink in the scene

Out along the beachfront I walk
Without the least desire to talk
Winds stir currents tagging my toes
As I skip among with the flows

School children come to march and play
Joyful steps make bridge creak and sway
The old dockman readies his boat
For couples to paddle and float

A dweller gets air at a sill
Dressed warmly against the morning’s chill
“Hot soy milk” is the vendor’s yell
Passers-by rush at him pell-mell

Below the cliff to the tea shops
That is where my winding stroll stops
Into the green tea leaves I peer
Revealing whether hope ends here.

The Journey Is Home

Visitor from the heartland

To learn an exotic tongue

In Green Mountain shadows,

Land of Abenaki and Mohawk,

Maple syrup, covered bridges

Walleye. and granite rock.

Learned, helpful masters

Lecturing on an Edo backwoods,

Youthful, randy companions

Primed for skinny dips in the river,

A smart, enchanting lady

Companion for late study sessions.

In driving rain on campus glade,

Umbrella offered, head on shoulder,

Absorbing the momentous moment,

She ultimately came to realize

I was the one giving the lesson –

Wouldn’t do something I couldn’t.

“You’re not like the other guys.”

“I guess I am someone otherwise.

The ban on my finger rings true.

I must carry on and bid adieu.”

Emotion brought to the brink,

What would Master Bashō think?

– 毎日が旅であり、旅が住いなのだ。
Every day is a journey. The journey itself is home.

Ambrosial Vale

I take the pass between coffee hills,

Descending gentle slopes to caramel wilds.

Circling a shallow on the cinnamon plain,

I cross the hot cocoa strand seeking the

Ambrosial Vale.

Afar a clustered temptation rises,

Luscious mound of delectable treat.

I wind through the aromatic brush

To sip the source of creamy nectar,

Hot Chocolate Delight!

🙂

Close Encounter of a French Kind

It was a warm autumn afternoon in 1972 when he, an American student boarded the train in Paris heading to visit Strasbourg. The hum of the train’s engine was soothing as he sank into his seat, tucked his backpack beside him, and let his eyelids flutter closed. His mind drifted lazily, the rhythmic sound of the train on the tracks slowly pulling him into a deep, contented sleep.

The compartment was small, filled with the faint smell of old leather and fresh baguettes from lunch. Soon, the soft click of the compartment door opening broke the stillness, and two middle-aged French women entered, chatting animatedly in the way only Parisians could. They settled into the seats across from him, each taking her place with an air of practiced elegance. One of the women, dressed in a floral print dress with over-sized sunglasses perched atop her head, glanced at the young American snoozing in the corner.

“Regardez, he’s American,” she said quietly to her companion, nodding toward his sneakers and baseball cap. “You can always tell.”

Her friend, who wore a neatly pressed blouse and had her graying hair tied back in a strict bun, looked him over with a skeptical frown. “Of course, it’s the gym shoes. I can’t believe those people wear such things in public.”

The first woman sighed, shaking her head. “And the baseball cap. So typical. He probably doesn’t even know how to dress properly for a train ride.”

They exchanged a knowing glance and began to speak more freely, certain the young man was too deeply asleep to understand their words. The conversation shifted, as it often did in Parisian circles, to the topic of politics.

“You know, I heard there are protests against the Americans even in Strasbourg,” the second woman continued, her tone growing more disapproving. “Their war in Vietnam, it’s a disaster. What kind of people invade a country on the other side of the world and destroy it? And for what? For profit? For control?”

“Exactly,” the first woman agreed, her voice rising with indignation. “And now they’re spreading their influence all over Europe, telling us how to live. It’s just disgraceful. How can we stand it? The Americans, they have no idea how to behave. So brash, so loud. I simply don’t understand.”

She paused, as if contemplating the sheer audacity of the situation. The other woman nodded in agreement, both of them clearly convinced of the righteousness of their opinions. Their eyes occasionally darted toward him, but they saw no sign of life from him. He was lost in his sleep, or so they thought.

Minutes passed, the train clattering on, and the women continued their animated conversation. They grew bolder in their critiques, convinced that the young man had no clue. They spoke in French, a language the Americans rarely understood fully.

Soon enough, the train’s speaker crackled overhead, announcing an approaching stop. The women fell silent as they gathered their things, preparing to disembark. They were still deep in their conversation, no longer paying much attention to the sleeping American.

As the train pulled into the station, he stirred from his nap, blinking as though the announcement had pulled him back to the present. He stretched and yawned, adjusting his cap, his eyes glancing momentarily at the two women across from him. The compartment had become a little quieter now, the hum of the train giving way to the voices of the other passengers.

He stood up, grabbed his bag, and turned to leave. Before stepping out into the corridor, he gave the two women a polite, almost amused nod.

“J’ai tout compris,” he said smoothly, his American accent still discernible but unmistakably clear in French. “Bonne journée, mesdames.”

The words hung in the air for a beat, their weight sinking in like a stone.

The first woman froze, her hand still gripping her handbag, her face slowly turning crimson. Her friend’s eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment, neither of them could speak.

He offered a smile that was both friendly and disarmingly polite before proceeding to debark.

The two women exchanged embarrassed glances, both silent now, as the doors closed behind him.

“Mon Dieu,” whispered the first woman, her voice trembling slightly. “Il a tout entendu.”

The other woman nodded slowly. “Et tout compris aussi. Quelle honte.”

As the train began to pull away, they sat in stunned silence, the reality of their assumptions and the casual judgment sinking in.

Road Trip

Each summer, the map spread wide
across the kitchen table—
my father tracing routes with a finger,
his eyes squinting, as though looking for the path
where adventure hid,
waiting along the inked highways.

Chicago—always the start,
the city we’d leave behind,
its skyline fading in the rear view,
and the rumble of the wheels interspersed
with the chatter of my sister’s endless questions
and the rustle of my mother’s stoic optimism.

Rand McNally in hand,
a sacred guide,
each page crinkled with age
and heavy with anticipation,
labeling towns and sites we never heard of
and others we’d never forget.

We’d drive through the heart of America,
through cornfields and small towns
where the diner was always open
and the waitress knew your order before you spoke.

There was something sacred about those maps—
not just roads or cities,
but a way of binding us to each other,
in the back of our old Chrysler
with the windows cracked and the sun hot,
sticky fingers passing snacks,
the scent of gas and sunburns mixing.

Dad always knew the best route—
not the fastest,
but the one that wound by rivers and hills,
through little-known landmarks and endless sky,
places where time slowed down
and the roads stretched out,
offering us the freedom to get lost
but always know where we were.

The hum of the tires on endless roadways,
the blur of passing landscapes,
the roadside tourist shops,
the quirky attractions,
a kaleidoscope of Americana unfolding before our eyes.

Mount Rushmore’s stoic gaze,
Yellowstone’s geysers erupting,
the Grand Canyon’s breathtaking vastness,
New Orleans, New York City, and Washington, DC—
each a postcard memory,
a testament to the beauty and diversity of this land.

And when we’d return
to hometown Chicago once more
I’d look at the worn-out map,
the highways’ now familiar tracks,
and think of how every curve,
every turn,
had shaped us—
the long shared journey of family
marked in asphalt and memory.