Photo originally from February 2025
'keep, gimme three fingers of rye
After a recommendation from a friend, I watched Masters of the Air, a show about the airmen of the 100th Bomb Group during WW2. Having done two years in my country’s equivalent of the Air Force JROTC (by no means downplaying the 100th and uplifting my time in JROTC, I can only describe my initial interest came from a moment of kizuna), I immediately became interested and decided to watch it.
The show is phenomenal. I was captivated by how it set the tone from the start: early morning mission briefings, high-stress interactions between crew members during bombing runs, the pitiful retreat of bullet-riddled planes full of injured men, and the grim realization when people recognize the attrition on the air wing after each mission; some of the characters, with good character development, are killed off permanently from the show. It’s gritty, and I love it.
It could have used a few more episodes, perhaps to flesh out the British spy subplot or to give more spotlight to the Red Tails, but overall I highly recommend it. Because of the show, I’ve even gotten more into jazz. I went to this speakeasy in Shimokitazawa a few months back, and asked the barkeep to play some Artie Shaw. They didn’t have him. Disappointing.
Between sorties, the show slows down to the crew’s downtime: nights at the local bar on base or once at this small English pub. Their conversations ranged from insane landing stories, hearsay on exploits by other pilots, and playful banter on each other’s technical skills.
Without spoiling much (and zero context anyway), one conversation that stuck with me is with Rosenthal and his crew when he joins them at a table for a card game during their R&R after the Münster mission:
Ron: "Hey, this is the guy I was telling you about."
Rosenthal: "Is he telling stories again?"
Ron: “Yeah, I’ve got a story. Our last mission over Münster. One by one, we see everybody go down until we’re the last bird in the sky. Sitting ducks. We know they’re coming for us any f*cking second. And then we hear it.
[humming “The Chant”]
[imitates trumpets]
[chuckling]
[humming continues]
[imitates trumpets]
Rosenthal: “Is that what I sound like?”
Ron: “We’re about to get our balls blown off when this guy here, this crazy bastard, starts humming Artie Shaw.”
[chuckling]
Ron: “Out of the blue. And it was the strangest thing. But I gotta say, hearing his voice over the radio, that was the first time that I didn’t feel scared s*itless. Even though he’d clearly lost his f*cking marbles.”
[chuckles]
Ron: “I knew that I wasn’t alone.”
Milburn: “None of us were.”
[humming continues]
Rosenthal: “Oh, come on. Who’s dealing?”
Unnamed Airman: “Let me tell you about our last mission. We were in this shot-up fort, limping over the channel on two engines…”
As Ron concluded up his story, making light while genuinely opening up about his apprehension about being alone, there was a pause. Milburn chimes in, reassuring him that no one is alone. You can see the weight lift from his shoulders, his face evidently still jaded. And with subtle whimpers and the silent table, Rosenthal pats him on the shoulder. Carrying on, another airman starts telling a story of his own.
Watching this, I realized something important. These scenes weren’t just breathing room for the audience and characters. I think that they were there to show how these men processed trauma to keep moving forward. Whether they were distracting themselves to cope with returning back to the fray of their hellish missions or they were being genuinely earnest in their words: what I believe is that these stories became the bridge between them to connect with each other.
I consider myself an introvert. It’s a conundrum: I’m nervous in crowds but still excited to meet new people. There’s not much I naturally relate to with others. I don’t watch sports or TV much, and I avoid most current events. My hobbies are… niche, to say the least.
But watching those scenes made me realize something simple: our experiences in life are stories in and of themselves.
Like the stories we grew up with, knights on horseback or a Roald Dahl novel, they’re worth sharing.
It's very simple, and should be obvious. But I felt that it, at the least for me, must be reiterated.
Shifting my perspective toward storytelling has helped me talk to people more easily. Instead of asking, “So, what do you do?” I try to swap or listen to stories.
I think one of the most meaningful times I’ve received someone’s story was in the summer of 2025. I was on my way home after hiking Mt. Hiwada in Koma, Saitama. With my gear and socks wet from guerrilla rain, I came across a tweet about a “Meet Me in Shibuya” event that was taking place that very evening. Feeling a sudden urge to join, I booked it home, showered, and headed straight there.
A few hours later I was at an izakaya, sitting across from a gentleman named S. He wore a beret and dressed in a manner that I can only describe as "someone who goes on evening walks to clear his head" ala Raskolnikov. For what it’s worth, he clearly didn’t look like an English teacher or a recruiter. His manner of speaking reminded me of MC Ride like in that one interview: seemingly a detached ramble, but intentional in his choice of words.
I don’t remember how our conversation started, but when I mentioned my hike, S immediately said he knew the place. He pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of the same summit, taken sometime earlier. There was the same trailhead, that view of Koma from behind the torii perched on uneven stone. It was a surreal, quiet coincidence that linked two strangers through some random mountain most foreigners wouldn’t even notice on a map.
Later, I checked out the link to his website he’d given me. He’d written about that same hike, not as some “hidden gem” day trip, but as a place tied to a story he still seemed to be living. Reading it made me happy. He’d gone for personal reasons, and I for Yama no Susume, but I’d argue we’d seen the mountain the same way.
The best way to have stories to tell? Go out and make them. Not through carefully curated trips, but by doing things that might go wrong, things that give you something real to talk about.
Travel helps. And I don’t mean another Kyoto weekend. I’d rather hear about you going to Kakuda, Miyagi. It’s one thing to visit sights, but it’s another to be somewhere unfamiliar, making your own choices, meeting locals, and stumbling through situations. Those are the ingredients for a story.
A recent one for me was a trip to Ogawamachi, Saitama with a close friend from high school. We rented bicycles from the local tourism center with the goal of visiting Former Shimosato Elementary School, now a community center and also serves as the model for the school in Non Non Biyori.
Along the way, we chatted with locals, were given fresh persimmons from a garden, and ended up cycling into the next town to visit a local onsen. We didn’t expect the steep slopes. It was brutal, and we returned the bikes just five minutes before the deadline. But the image of fog rolling over the mountains looked straight out of Lord of the Rings, suddenly interrupted by a blazing wanman train darting by.
At the top of the highest slope, we started singing “Mademoiselle from Armentières” and “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag” before coasting downhill, wind in our faces.
Photo originally from February 2025
Originally, We discussed going to Enoshima. On the surface, it seemed like the obvious choice with its ocean views, laid-back atmosphere, and the Enoden. But despite that, I know which one I’d pick again.
Now, I keep a few stories ready for the right time. Examples include:
Want to know what these are? You’ll have to ask me when we meet (or wait until I write them down someday.)
TLDR Imagine yourself as the Dragonborn entering a tavern and telling people your stories, and listening to theirs: IRL adventures.
