I met Dai in Tokyo the night before we’d depart on the Shinkansen train for Kyoto. After enveloping me in a big hug, Dai took me to a 7–11. “Let’s get snacks”, he said. I teased him for having low standards. “No,” he said, “you don’t understand. This is your first day in Japan. You’re about to learn how everything in this country is delicious. Even the pre-made foods at 7–11.” I settled on a chocolate-matcha ice cream bar and proceeded to eat one of the most memorable ice cream bars I have experienced in my life.
This was the trip we had always deserved. This was the trip we had always wanted, but never got to take because we were busy dealing with life. Dai and I had exchanged way too many tears over the years. While those tender moments helped us grow, it was time to have some damn fun together.
Our relationship began with a dose of misfortune. On the night of our first date, we were mugged on the street. However, what might have killed the romance for one couple only seemed to strengthen the bond between us. As if foreshadowing the events to come, this incident would not be the first time that Dai and I would face adversity together.
From the very first time I met Dai, I had that feeling of something. It was one of those moments you see in the movies. Our eyes met and I felt a spark in the chest. Oh! the love at first sight phenomenon.
It was the summer of 2014 in Detroit. I just started working with a creative agency focused on social innovation. Dai was a public policy grad, all clean-cut and ready to change the world. We both had just joined a team of like-minded misfit millennials who were set on shaking things up.
One day, our boss asked me if I knew of any housing options in my neighborhood, as Dai needed a place. It just so happened that my downstairs neighbors were moving out at the end of the summer. I lived in a two-story house on Bagley Ave. in the historic neighborhood of Corktown. If Mr. Rogers (the beloved TV ‘neighbor’) lived in Detroit, he would have lived on this street. Imagine impeccable rows of trees shading long porches attached to Victorian-area townhomes and single-story dollhouses. We gathered for summertime lemonade, and Dawn down the street cultivated a community garden. I’d wander out in the mornings and find myself with a handful of fresh tomatoes. The little boy next door would play with me on the sidewalk. In a city known for its grit, Bagley Ave. was pretty idyllic.
Dai and I spent his first afternoon at the apartment drinking beers on our front porch. I learned that he had gone through a break-up a few weeks ago, as I had as well. We spent every night that week hanging out on our porch. One day, I biked past him as I was heading to our neighborhood grocery store. “Where ya going?” I called out. “Honeybee!” he responded, referring to the store. “Cool, I’ll see ya there” I shouted back as I sped on past him.
I proceeded to buy way more food than my bike could carry home on its handlebars. Upon seeing my struggle to bike up the hill on our street, Dai insisted upon walking all of my groceries home. Feeling a bit embarrassed but also grateful, I offered to cook something as a thank-you. I rushed up my stairs and did a quick clean-up while throwing together a salad and some side dishes. Dai had planned on grilling some chicken. I put on some John Coltrane and tried to exude a casual coolness.
The next day at the office–a Friday–I overheard a teammate ask Dai if he wanted to go out for beers after work. “Nah,” he responded. “I think I’m going to just chill out on my porch tonight.” I smiled to myself, realizing that he had hoped to take our weeknight routine into the weekend.
Dai and I did meet up on the porch that night but quickly decided to grab dinner at our neighborhood Italian place. We ate pizza, drank wine, and played bocce ball with some neighbors. We had never really discussed it, but this was kinda our first date.
About an hour later, we decided to move on to a cocktail bar down the street. On our way there, something disoriented me. I found myself on the ground, in the middle of an intersection. My purse was gone and my shirt was torn. Dai was shouting at a trio of guys who were running away from us. Dai ran over and gave me a big hug. “Are you okay?!” he asked. I felt angry about the robbery but happy for Dai to have a reason to hug me.
We walked back to our house, but as Dai was now the only one with a key, we had to hang out in his place while we waited for the police. He gave me a Detroit Tigers t-shirt to change into, since mine was shredded by the man who yanked me to the ground. Dai poured water into coffee mugs and we sat in his living room, making small talk and laughing off the anxiety about what had just happened. I slept on Dai’s couch tossing and turning while waiting for morning to come.
The next day, we called on a locksmith to get me into my apartment. Dai ran out to get us bagels and coffee and we sat on the porch, enjoying the morning despite the odd circumstances. Dai’s adorable dog Gus laid at my feet, and Dawn waved at us from the garden.
We had dinner in my apartment again that night. Later that week, our first kiss. Then followed a lot of good times with friends at our neighborhood bar, St. Cece’s. St. Cece’s was one of those places one could write a whole book about. I would go there to read a book and drink a hot toddy by day, and to down $2 beers with friends by night. It was dog-friendly, so Gus would come along. It’s since been replaced with a fine-dining restaurant, but its legacy lives on in the hearts of every neighbor on Bagley.
Those were the days we’d look back on and long for simpler times.
One year after Dai and I started dating, his beloved grandmother fell ill. He spent many weekends driving to Canada, visiting her. At the same exact time, my dad was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. A few days after Dai’s grandma died, he was rushing to the Neuro-ICU to stay overnight with me as we waited for the results of my dad’s scan. It turned out to be stage IV, malignant, glioblastoma multiforme. That’s a sure-shot terminal diagnosis. Prognosis: 6–9 months. Dai didn’t even get to go to his grandmother’s memorial service, which was scheduled for the following morning, four hours away.
I had met Dai’s parents once or twice. They were nice to me, but formal. I had not yet been to their house, and it wasn’t clear if they realized how serious of a relationship we were in. His parents were very traditional, and had a certain idea about how Dai should live. We had talked about trying to get married while my dad would still be around for it. Dai bought me a ring––one I couldn’t have imagined actually receiving in my wildest dreams. We talked about DJ playlists and clever first-dance ideas.
“Did you talk to your parents yet?” was a common question I was asking Dai those days. As my dad’s health declined, my questioning became more frequent. Finally, Dai admitted: “I did, and they’re not comfortable with it. Just give me more time to talk with them. I’ll get this sorted out.”
And to Dai’s credit, I saw him try really hard. I overheard heated conversations where he would beg “Why?”, as in, why not — and not receive a clear answer. Both frustrated, we just carried on with life, trying to make sense of the circumstances that seemed too complex for us to grasp.
In early June of 2016, nine months after his diagnosis, my dad suddenly passed away. Three days before his death, Dai’s parents came to his house to see him and pay their respects. His mother quietly looked around the room, while his father––a cardiac surgeon––held my dad’s hand and looked in his eyes. As we walked them out, Dai’s dad said something gently to me about the meaning of life and death. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the profoundness.
Dai and I spent the next six months trying to reconcile our future. To me, without the certainty of an engagement, our relationship was at risk. To him, we could just keep going as we were. Finally, after much probing from me, he finally stated:
I’m sorry. I’m not going to be able to marry you, Bethany.
And at least now I had an answer. I could choose how to move on with my life. I had been training for a marathon at that time. One month later I would be flying to Asia for my first long solo trip abroad, and the marathon would take place in the tiny Himalayan country of Bhutan. I had much to be excited about, so I threw myself into my training. Running 15–20 miles at a time while listening to music and plowing my way across icy winter roads was cathartic and healing.
My first trip to Asia turned out to be one of those stereotypically life changing experiences that literally flipped everything in my world upside-down — in a good way. According to my teasing friends, I’d had a very Eat, Pray, Love transformation. “Yeah”, they’d say.” “You go abroad for a long trip and come back with a whole new attitude. How cliché!”
But it was true. I found a new energy after that trip, and in a serendipitous turn of events, landed myself a job with a Bhutanese travel company. I packed up and left Detroit in search of adventure on the other side of the world. I flew out on a one-way ticket in October of 2017 and put all the pain of the past couple of years behind me. In an effort to move on from Dai, I put all of the past years’ joy behind me, too.
But Dai and I were not and are not like any usual “exes.” We forged a strong bond through everything we experienced. After we broke up, I told him, “I can accept you not being my husband, and I can accept losing you as my boyfriend. But I cannot accept the idea of losing you as my friend.” He agreed. Though it made it harder to move on, we committed to maintaining our friendship. In fact, we even grew closer through the honest conversations we had in processing what had happened with us.
By the end of 2018, it seemed like things were looking up in both of our lives. Dai went from one work promotion to the next and remodeled a gorgeous mid-century townhouse. I was having adventures in the hills of Bhutan, Northern Thailand, and Mongolia. That Christmas, Dai had planned a three-week trip to Japan, and invited me to meet him there for a part of it. I deliberated at first, but then it became clear:
It was time to celebrate all we had lived through, together. We had cried together. Now let’s have fun together. Good friends should do both.
It’s not that we didn’t have fun before, but in the past couple of years, we had been faced with big, scary, life challenges that sucked the wind out of us. Then I started gallivanting around the world with people I hardly knew, and often wished I could have had that kind of experience with Dai. I wanted to celebrate us.
…
As the Shinkansen bullet train pulled into the station that crisp morning, I snapped pictures of its sleek, shiny white exterior. A couple of hours later, we were stowing our bags in luggage lockers at Kyoto Station and set out to find some coffee. Dai’s not much of a coffee drinker, but I cannot start a day without it. It’s not that I can’t, but I don’t want to. It’s a psychological thing. In a land far, far, away, some farmers on a mountainside grew the beans, harvested them, and shipped them to a roaster in Japan, where they were artfully transformed into an aromatic miracle that is now being meticulously brewed just for me by a young barista in a cozy cafe on a cold Kyoto morning… how can you skip a morning ritual like that??
Anyway… we got the coffee (from a lovely shop called Kurasu) and went for a long walk. This is one of my favorite things about an early-morning arrival into a new city. You hit the street just as the city starts waking up and see the entire arc of a day. After coffee, we passed a small barber-shop with old-world appeal. I teased Dai that his beard could use a trim and he surprisingly took me up on it. The barber was reading a newspaper when we walked in, but quickly jumped into action to prepare his chair for Dai. The first client of the day. I documented the entire process and the friendly barber flashed quirky expressions at my camera while Dai shook his head at me, laughing. He was often embarrassed by my public interactions. Why should it be any different now that we are in Japan?
It was a Saturday, so we decided to have breakfast at the Nishiki Market. We passed through immaculate, manicured alleyways and eventually descended into the hustle and bustle of the busy market. We saw rows of mini grilled octopus, fresh fruits galore, and well-dressed couples pushing well-dressed dogs in prams. I wanted classic Japanese sushi, so we popped into an omakase spot for lunch. Omakase translates to “I’ll leave it up to you”, and describes a dining experience where the chef makes the choices for what to serve that day. We watched as one culinary piece of perfection after another were presented in front of us.
I hadn’t done any research before traveling, but Dai had found this onsen (Japanese hot spring) close to the tiny village of Kurama, in Kyoto’s northern hills. Kurama is known for its Buddhist temple, which is thus far the most beautiful temple I have seen in my travels across Asia. We walked the grounds before ascending into the frosted woods beyond the temple. When we were ready to warm up, we checked in to the onsen. There are separate baths for men and women. I lowered my body down into the outdoor bath and took in my surroundings, without gazing too much at the other naked women around me. My eyes settled on the trees above, and I thought about our adventure thus far. It was comforting to travel with someone who knows you well, who you feel totally yourself with. And to have kept that level of comfort with Dai after all we’d been through made me proud of our friendship.
Of course, we couldn’t go a few hours without sampling a local snack. We found a kiosk promoting a curious-sounding french toast roll cake. We were handed a warm and crusty baguette-type creation topped with powdered sugar. It was soft and spongy in the middle with all the egg-y, buttery-sweet goodness of french toast. It was a revelation on a cold afternoon. We had a proper meal of ramen in the village and took the train back into central Kyoto.
The next four days carried on in much the same fashion. Walking, snacking, repeat. I think these are two things that Japan is known for. I have read that many Japanese people do not worry much about formal exercise, because they are always walking so much. This was the best way to experience Kyoto, no doubt. Slowing down to see the small things, there were more details to laugh and marvel at.
We took the following morning to visit Arashiyama, home of the oft-Instagrammed bamboo forest. Dai insisted it was best to see it first thing in the morning, so we took the 6:00am train. With no time for breakfast, we picked up some packages of pre-made pancakes from 7–11. Again, I was skeptical. “NO,” Dai boldly insisted. “They are so good. The butter and syrup is INSIDE the pancake!” I told the shop clerk that I didn’t need a plastic bag (attempting to reduce waste) and she removed my pancakes from the bag and proceeded to throw it in the trash. I shrugged off the miscommunication and Dai said to me, “You should have told her before she put the pancakes in it.” I sensed judgement in his tone and got angry about the comment. I felt irritation rise up inside me, but then remembered we weren’t dating anymore. Ha! It’s easier to laugh things off when you’re not so intimately intertwined with someone. It was the only time we had any tension during the trip.
Dai was right about the pancakes, though. I cannot understand how they pack so much pure pancake flavor into an industrial food item.
The walk through the bamboo forest was as remarkable as it had seemed from other people’s photos, but it’s deceptively short in distance. It’s a quick pop in, pop out wander through an illuminated green wonderland. We decided to see the rest of what Arashiyama has to offer. We walked along the riverbed and past more inspiring Zen temples. I found a coffee shop, which was a local outpost of the international % Arabica brand. Hipster coffee with a river view.
Back in town, we hit some of the other iconic Kyoto sites, like walking along The Philosopher’s Path. The path meanders alongside cute shophouses that cater to tourists, but is intended to evoke contemplation in those who walk. We followed it to the Kinkaku-ji shrine, which was the most tourist-flocked site we visited but totally worth it. As you explore Kyoto, you see a particular relationship between nature and architecture. Interiors and exteriors blend into one another, creating harmony. Is this the result of Zen practice, or early Shinto beliefs, or do the Japanese just understand good design?
On our final evening in Kyoto, Dai and I were struggling to find a place for dinner. We’d had some pizza and beers earlier and just wanted clean, simple Japanese food. After seeking out several places that turned out to be either closed or over-crowded, we just about gave up. “Let’s walk home,” I said, and we headed towards our Airbnb. “We can always go to 7–11 if we get desperate.”
Down a back alley at the center of a junction, we saw a small shop painted white. There were no signs in English, but had two vertical cloth panels indicating it was a restaurant. The lights were on inside, as we could see a warm glow emanating from the fogged windows. “Do you want to try it?” I asked Dai. “I bet the best restaurants in Kyoto can’t be found on Google Maps,” he said.
We walked into what was a small bar that seats about seven people. Two patrons were drinking beers and snacking on an assortment of small dishes at the opposite end. The woman behind the bar greeted us and presented a menu entirely in Japanese, before realizing that we couldn’t read it. She asked us in English what we would like, and we took the omakase approach saying “Whatever you think is best!” in unison.
What came next was two beers and an assortment of eats: small salad with miso dressing, grilled mackerel, red snapper sashimi, pickled vegetables, rice, and soup with daikon radish. It was a simple, healthful meal prepared with love in a one-woman kitchen. The perfect way to end a friendly trip to Kyoto. Upon exiting the restaurant, Dai pointed to a small statue of an animal character which seemed to be ubiquitous around Japan, though we never discussed it before.
“Who is this little guy?” Dai said to the restaurant owner, and she walked over to us with a slight laugh.
“Ohhh”, she replied. “That’s Tanuki. He’s a mischievous but harmless character. He brings us luck.”
Dai and I nodded our heads with a “huh” and thanked our host for the dinner. Back out in the alley, it was time for me to catch a train back to Tokyo and a flight back to Thailand. Dai walked me to the train station and we hugged our goodbyes. On the Shinkansen that evening, I felt a little emotional. I probably wouldn’t see Dai again for a long time, and it was nice to have had some time exploring the other side of the world together. I thought back on all we had been through and felt a bittersweet gladness for what we now have in comparison to what we had lost. In an age where so many have become accustomed to “canceling” others, I want to advocate for allowing these relationships to evolve. It might take some time, but there is a deeper human-to-human experience available to us when we push past painful experiences and get to the joy together on the other side. I can’t say it will always work out that way for everyone. But it’s something worth trying, and when it happens, it’s something worth celebrating.
Written by Bethany Betzler
Bethany Betzler designs travel experiences, writes short stories; essays, and brings strategic direction to cultural projects. Her work is typically place-driven, where she focuses on projects that celebrate a specific city or country and the local community residing there. Her career has led her into contemporary dance, fine art, media, design, economic development, and most recently tourism. She loves forests, drinking coffee, studying Buddhist traditions, running/hiking across the world.
Week 1, 1st January 2021
