I can see myself living here

We buy a disused rice paddy

I’m sitting in my tiny office at Frog’s Glen, and out the slit window is a sideways, lashing downpour.

When the wind blows like this, I occasionally catch a moaning sound. I don’t think it’s Frog’s Glen. Maybe it’s coming from Mr. Hata’s house past the hedge?

But I’m not checking in to tell you about noises in the air. Let me finish the story I began the other day.

You’ll remember that, after a bunch of strikeouts in besso land, Real Estate boy Hirabayashi told us about a piece of land 20 minutes away on the other side of the peninsula.

Off two-lane Highway 86 and just short of a long-shuttered Toshiba outlet that probably sold not much more than toasters and extension cords in its heyday, we made a sharp descending left that swept us into this nook of the valley.

We crossed a tight one-lane bridge marked “Max 6 Tons.” (I think the highway department was being optimistic.) The bridge crosses a small but healthy-sounding river, and just to the left of the bridge is a well dug by a famous traveling Buddhist priest named Koubou. He dug wells across Japan.

Soon we came to the land. It was gravel and tall weeds. We learned that ages ago it had been a rice paddy but at some point had been back-filled with stones. Though it was marked for sale, the locals seem to have been using it as a communal spot to park their mini farming trucks.

In fact, as we got out of our cars, an old daikon farmer came scurrying from his field to move his truck out. “I am so sorry! So sorry! Are you here to see the property? I am so terribly sorry. I was told I could park here whenever. Won’t happen again.”

All of us smiled. We reassured him there was no need to apologize—just stopping in for a look-see.

He dug a well in our valley.

The land is 100 tsubo. A westerner would say ah just about big enough for my garage, but for an average Japanese scale is different—it looks like Wyoming. We only wanted to build a modestly sized house, so there would be plenty of space left for parking, a garden, and maybe a veggie patch one day.

As Hirabayashi and Toru chirped on about something regarding property lines, I looked around the land in each direction. Maybe 10 homes were visible nearby or on rises across the small valley. The valley contained nothing but small farms that grow vegetables and rice, plus a few crumbling one-lane access roads that connect the houses. The surrounding hills were lush and multihued in greens. Sasa bamboo groves swayed in the breeze everywhere.

More than anything I remember a perfect silence in the air.

Mr. Hata is next door and there is a family down the path who haven’t yet told us their names. A 7-11 is about a 5-minute drive away. There once was a cracker shop as well as kind of a dry goods shop—the bleached-out signs are still there—but they’ve been long shuttered.

I had so many thoughts.

I can see myself living here. Why is that?

Wake up. We will need to actually meet these people.

Toru is probably silently appalled. He can’t wait for us to leave, yet here I am thinking I can live here. I should kiss this whole bucolic thing good-bye, no way this will fly with him.

I asked Hirabayashi the price twice I think. It was too low. Japan has been on Bargain Sale for a while now, I knew, but I hadn’t realized the extent of the damage. The land was a rounding error.

On the way back to Tokyo, I think Toru spoke first. Here it comes, I thought, the shit-canning of my I can see myself living here daydream. “I really liked that,” he said. (Turns out, his childhood in similar sticks meant that he saw his past in that valley.) “So did I,” I quickly replied not wanting to lose that moment of shared positivity.

We bought the patch the next day. The two of us have a long history of spur of the moment decisions.

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Frog’s Glen is my name for the house we built. I plan to tell you a few stories about that construction and why the frog name. But more immediately, let me move on to share stories of the area, our neighbors, and life in Japan’s countryside. I hope you decide to read along.