There was a problem, though. I had crossed through the train station in order to get to The Road and the Sky, not realizing how this took me to the other side of the train tracks. Now, the hour was late, and the station was closed, and I hadn't a clue how to get across the tracks and back toward my new apartment! For a split second I felt a flash of panic before realizing that, wait, there had to be a way to get across.

The problem was that I had no idea where it was. I had to ask someone.

I walked into a convini with an undeserved confidence that I'd be able to communicate. At this late hour, there was only one person in the store, a young employee, wearing an apron, busy restocking some beverages into the refrigerators. At the sound of my voice he shot up to his feet. Then, I did my best, overusing the few Japanese words that I knew, with plenty of hand gesturing, trying to convey my predicament. Where can I cross the train tracks to get to the other side?

I thought for sure this poor guy was thinking, why me? Why must I have to deal with this strange, possibly drunk, gaijin? But, he never grew disinterested, and with growing appreciation I saw that he was quite intent on understanding me.

Like a light bulb flashing on, he suddenly understood my exact predicament. He looked around the store and noticed it was empty. Then he jumped into action and ran outside, the convini doors opening automatically. He motioned for me to follow him.

I was expecting to be pointed in the direction I should walk, or, at best, a crude map drawn on a napkin. Instead, there he was, ready to show me the way!

I was shocked as he took off like a rocket, and I realized, he had to hurry—he was leaving his shop completely unattended. Unbelievable he would do this, especially for a random gaijin he'd never met and would probably never see again.

So what did I do? I took off after him, trying to keep pace with him. It must have been a comical sight for those we passed, to see an employee sprinting down the street, still wearing an apron, followed closely by a random gaijin—and it was clear we were on a mission of some sort.

We ran several blocks until I saw a large concrete highway overpass. Underneath was a flat area, where typically kids liked to loiter. The employee pointed me in that direction, and not much further ahead I'd find the stairs and the bike ramp that led down to a tunnel, which would go under the tracks and out to the other side of town where my apartment was.

I sighed in relief.

Then, I turned back to the employee and thanked the guy profusely. He merely nodded and then sprinted back down the street toward his unattended store.

I hoped he wouldn't be fired or robbed, or something—but I'm sure that didn't happen. Still, why would he take such a risk, just to help out someone he'd never met? Well, whether he intended this or not, it left a hell of an impression on me. And now, I'm taking my gratitude even further—I'm writing about it so it lives forever, at least in some capacity. In an ideal world, my written acknowledgment of appreciation would find its way back to this random Japanese guy, and it will be a surreal, mind-blowing moment for him—how his kindness had come full circle. Isn't there some way we can make this happen?

My first night in my new town was still not finished.

I emerged from the tunnel and walked down a small side street, and there, twinkling in the dark night, was a tiny building with a red neon sign that said "Dude." It was a tiny little bar, the most hole-in-the-wall place yet. I grinned, glad that my next destination had been made quite clear to me.

This place had Christmas lights strung all over, Jack Daniels signs, and an interesting Native American theme throughout. The music was rock, always rock, and the master, Kenji, looked the part, with hair like Elvis, welcoming newcomers to find a spot to squeeze in. It was a tiny little bar, but he could always find you a seat.

On that first night, I was surprised to see that it was another gaijin seated next to me. This was Julian, and he was from New Zealand, and he would go on to be my best friend over the next couple years.

It is great to make new Japanese friends, but all along it is also great to have a friend you can converse with on your native level. For me, that was Julian, and he was my running mate in Japan, and the perfect one to have—he learned fast, the language, the manners you should have, he picked up on all the little things, cultural nuances and so forth, and he always knew the best things to say and do in particular situations. Some guys in Japan will say dumb things at bad times, and commit numerous faux pas—Julian is the opposite of those guys. He was a good guy to know, and he taught me much, especially at the beginning when I was such a rookie.

Julian and I drank draft beer in the Dude and talked to our new friends around us, Kenji included.

This bar would also go on to be another staple. It was the kind of place we'd walk into with the intent of just making it a quick stop. But, perhaps it was the close quarters, the intimacy of the bar, because then the next thing we knew, several hours had gone by and those seated all around us were our new best friends.

The master, Kenji, was the frontman in a band that played around town. They were heavy and did a lot of Metallica covers, among others.

No, no karaoke bars yet!

Finally, Julian and I left the Dude, but still my night was not finished.

By this point, we were both starving.

Across the street was another establishment, Mr. Wood Bar, and upon stepping inside, we realized they were closing. We turned back to the street, but the master and his wife refused. They urged us in, and before we knew it they were pouring draft beers and actually firing the kitchen back up. Shortly after we ate tacos, while talking to the master and his wife, both of them unbelievably friendly to us.

At some point, it was established that Julian and I could play guitar—this was true in Julian's case, and it bordered on a filthy lie in mine. In any event, two acoustic guitars were suddenly produced from a back room, as Julian and I drunkenly butchered some songs, and then just jammed freeform, with improvisational lyrics and all, to an audience of two. There was plenty of laughter all around.

Over the years to follow, Julian would play gigs at this bar, with his band he'd later establish called The Fumes. They'd play a lot of covers, everything from Frank Zappa to Pink Floyd to Tenacious D. I would always be in attendance, for each show, cheering them on, surrounded by tons of our friends, be they Japanese, American, or whatever.

After Mr. Wood Bar, I finally walked home. I stood out on my balcony and marveled at the view, the city calm and serene in the early morning hours. I also marveled one more time at the fact that I was here and lived in this place. This was only my first night, and I couldn't believe how much fun it had been. It felt like I'd already done so much. I tried to extrapolate that further—I tried to imagine how much I was going to do in two years. It was exhilarating to think about.

I went to bed and slept a long, long time. The next morning, I woke up in my new apartment in Japan and after a few moments I could confirm that it was all still real.