My first night out in Kanazawa Bunko is more or less emblematic of my new town, and to a greater extent, my time in Japan. I remember it vividly.

Twilight was falling and the lights around me became crisper with the incoming darkness, and I walked down the road with a smile. The streets of my new town were bustling, as they almost always were, people milling about the shops and stores, buying food on their way home from work, standing by magazine racks reading manga and other such things, and school kids here and there, talking and laughing. I walked past the nearest convini (convenience mart, like a 7-Eleven) to my apartment, correctly realizing how often I'd be stopping in there, perhaps multiple times per day. It would become my kitchen, more or less.

I made my way toward the train station, which not surprisingly was the busiest area around. There was a bar I had noted earlier called Rag Bag, and I walked in to a series of irashai mase (a combination of welcome and can I help you?). It was a little hole-in-the-wall place, but soon I'd realize they were all like this. Among the Japanese beers on tap were Guinness and Bass Ale, which along with the Miles Davis I heard playing, I knew I'd be back here quite a bit.

By gesturing I indicated that I was alone (later I would learn to say hitori—one person), and so I took a seat up at the bar. The master—not bartender, but the master—was quite friendly and we began talking almost immediately, and it was the kind of conversation I'd be having frequently over the next couple years—with both English and Japanese simultaneously involved, plus hand-gesturing, facial expressions, and so forth. Amazingly, it works just fine—when the effort is there. And as you make connections, it is satisfying indeed.

His name was Yo, and he'd go on to be my friend over the next couple years—every now and then, I'd stop in, and we'd catch up with one another. Since he was one of the first Japanese I met, ensuing conversations we had served as kind of a litmus test to assess how my Japanese was coming along. We'd also trade music.

I continued my walk, enjoying the night air, plus the sights and sounds of my new town.

I found my next stop by following my ears, literally.

Remember how I said all of the stories of those stationed in Japan were relatively similar, about how we arrived, spent some time on base, went through orientation, but then after that we'd all start branching off in wildly different directions, based on where we chose to live, our interests, age, and so forth? This is where I was led down a very particular fork in the road that very well-suited me.

Look, I'm an unabashed fan of the Grateful Dead, and it was literally the last thing I expected to hear as I strolled down a city street in Japan. My head was on a swivel as I tried to ascertain whether I was imagining it, or if it actually was real. Eventually, I just followed the music, and it gradually became louder, and that was how I found The Road and the Sky.

It was another little hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with décor like a circa-70s surfer bar in Hawaii or California. There was a VW bus parked outside, and inside I could see Christmas lights strung along the walls and surfboards hanging from the ceiling. A sign out front told me to Stop In, Chill Out, and Have a Good Time!

So, I decided to do just that.

It wasn't at all crowded—on this night, there was about five or six people seated at the bar and that was all. I walked in, and they all turned back to look at me. We were each frozen for a moment, but then a second later this group burst into loud, welcoming exclamations, greetings and so forth, all of them speaking loud and fast, drunk and happy. I smiled and said hi but was nevertheless unsure how I should proceed. I was in fact a bit shell-shocked. But then I recall vividly how a girl, having recognized my shyness, jumped off a bar stool, dashed down toward me, and then she pulled me back toward the bar by my shirt sleeve. This worked to simultaneously vaporize any shyness I may have had, while also solidifying the position of The Road and the Sky as number one on my list in terms of best first impression of any bar that I've ever walked into, whether in Japan or America.

I stood at the bar, and still hadn't really gotten much of a word in yet by the time the shots of tequila were poured and then happily dispersed amongst the group, of course to me as well, as though I hadn't a choice in the matter. I was practically speechless throughout all of this. On this evening, I had expected to find maybe some bad karaoke bars, or something like that. Instead I find this?

I love being wrong about Japan.

I stayed there for a few hours, with this very friendly, welcoming group, listening to my kind of music. I got introduced to everyone, and we talked and yelled happily over the tunes, while drinking and communicating anyway that we could. Considering how friendly and inviting this group was, and then with the alcohol on top of that, communication was no problem at all. Openness and willingness are every bit as important as the words actually spoken.

I met the master, Naru, a very fun and energetic guy with long hair and a wide smile. I told him I'd just moved into his neighborhood and he acted like he was damn glad to hear it—it was like he was welcoming me to the party. I loved this.

He'd go on to be a good friend over the next few years, who'd happily keep me informed of the next party or live show to go check out, whether it was one he was producing or not. There was a scene in Yokohama, one I was just starting to find out about, and one that I'd quickly immerse myself in. It involved a lot of parties, music, and live shows, and anytime I'd join I was welcomed eagerly into the group. Similarly, anytime I brought my friends, whether they were a group of awkward Navy guys or not, this crew was always damn glad to see it—it was like they were welcoming us all into the party. I loved this, too.

Eventually some people were leaving, and I realized I should, too. We all said bye, going through series of handshakes, fives, and even hugs. They walked off, or hopped in taxis, still waving bye, and then were gone.

I had numbers in my new cell phone. They would go on to be my friends over the next few years, ones that I'd see at that very same bar quite frequently, as The Road and the Sky would become one of my absolute staples. I'd see them at the other bars too, and at the live shows. I'd see them all the time.

I was by myself again, walking down the road, the air crisp and cool, the lights shining all around me.