Saying Goodbye is a Chance

Before I left I wrote a book review on the book “The Phone Box at the Edge of the World”. I also mentioned that on my hike I would actually come by Bell Gardia. Little did I know what would happen…

Part of the hike to the little village Namiitakaigan yesterday was, let’s say, challenging. After a couple of really nice hikes in the mountains I dared to think, that going via a pass would mean a less dangerous terrain then some of the hikes I have done. I had planned for plenty of time to reach the train that would bring me to my next stop and according to the map the highest point was under 200m. There was some fog and drizzle, but nothing that would have given me the idea to skip that one. In the end it was the old assume story…

The whole thing went up to 255m, which sounds like nothing except if it is basically one steep climb, with luggage. The hike was hell and once I had safe ground under my feet it started raining cats and dogs. That at least gave me a good idea of my next steps to make sure my equipment stays dry. I caught the train just about and got to the next stop but the rain didn’t stop for a while. So I decided to do less hiking, more coffee drinking and cake eating and catch a later train to my final stop of the day.

I knew that I wanted to see the kaze no denwa (Telephone of the Wind) but only when I walked to my place for the night, I realized why.

I am at an age where the chance to loose someone without saying your proper goodbyes is quite high. With some people it is okay, with others you found a way to make your peace but in my case there is this one person, that ripped a hole into my life that I was never able to close.

How do you mourn someone you do not even know?

49 years ago, when I was six years old, my father died. Just like that. Well, not really just like that, there is a story to it. He had an affair during a party that took place on a ship, took the wrong turn, probably was under the influence and fell down a flight of stairs, breaking his neck. End of story. Except it was not the end of the story, at least not for me.

My mother’s family never really talked about it, so I did not know what exactly happened until I was in my late twenties, and I was not allowed to go to the funeral. On top of that the contact with my father’s family ceased to exist. For years I imagined that his death was staged and he was a spy, coming back sometime later in my life. Seems silly? Hey, I grew up during the Cold War, stranger things could have happened.

By the age of twelve I gave in and accepted, that my father was buried under the headstone. But meanwhile I still did not know what really had happened and my mum frequently gave me a hateful look accompanied by the words “You are / look like your father!”

Sometimes when looking back, I try to figure out what I remember about him. I mean real experiences, not stories that become your memory. And in the end there are only two things. A ride on a Vespa and a morning matinee at a Jazz club in Lübeck.

Nevertheless, he has been occupying a lot of space in my life. I was never really able to let go because I didn’t know him, at all. The only reason I remember his face is, because I see a glimpse of it every morning when I look into the mirror.

There is a lot more twists and turns to this story but I don’t want to bore you.

I travelled to the other side of the world, a plan I had had all along and just because I stepped into a bookstore in Cornwall last year, talking to a wonderful old man about my plans to hike the Michinoku, I was presented with the opportunity to say my final goodbye to someone I never knew but who has been a big part of my life for the past 49 years.

A white telephone box, an old, black, disconnected telephone.