ESSAY
May, 1991.
A flawless California morning—no clouds, just an endless blue. In the early chill, I turned the key outside my Sacramento apartment. Luggage in the trunk, a worn Road Atlas on the passenger seat. No GPS, no navigation, no smartphones—just a folded paper map, creased from use, the only thing you could trust.
That morning marked the start of a westbound California road trip.
…Or so I thought. In reality, I had set off heading southeast. America is vast—vast enough to loosen even your sense of direction. Still, one thing was certain: the car would carry me deep into the American West.
The Rice Ball Strategy.
Every journey needs a plan. This one had its own: cheap California rice, a Showa-era Panasonic rice cooker, soy sauce, and nori. Strange cargo, perhaps—but with electricity, I could make onigiri anytime. On long drives, the real enemy isn’t fuel or tires. It’s food costs. America may be the land of hamburgers, but living on them every day wears something down. So I cooked rice, shaped it by hand, wrapped it in soy-sauced nori. To Americans, it might look like a cannonball—or a bomb. To me, it was the ultimate survival tool: onigiri.
First, the Ocean.
Sacramento sits in a basin. Summers push past 40°C, though the dry air makes it more bearable than Japan. Still, something was missing—the ocean. So the first destination was obvious: the Pacific. The route was California State Route 1, a legendary coastal highway. Back in Japan’s bubble era, it filled car commercials—sports cars gliding along cliffs, sunset, wind, motion. A road you dreamed of driving. Today, parts are closed from landslides, with no clear timeline for reopening. Which makes me think—I was lucky to drive it all the way to Los Angeles in 1991.
San Mateo–Hayward Bridge.
Heading west, the land opens to San Francisco Bay. There, you cross the San Mateo–Hayward Bridge, a long, low stretch skimming the water. The toll was one dollar in 1991; today it’s eight. Time moves on—bridges get more expensive. To the south lay Silicon Valley, still quiet back then, now the global center of technology. Cross the bridge, climb the hills, and the air changes. You begin to smell it—the Pacific.
Woodside.
Beyond the hills lies Woodside. Just west of Silicon Valley, yet a different world—ranches, horses, wide properties, traces of cowboy culture. I stopped for lunch at a small local supermarket, Roberts Market. Walking the aisles, I found sushi rolls. In 1991, the sushi boom had already taken hold; you could find it anywhere. I bought some, ate it in the car. It was surprisingly good—no real difference from Japan.
Itoen.
In the drink section, another discovery: canned Japanese tea. But what caught my eye was the label—not “Green Tea,” just “Itoen.” Even here, far from home, the taste of Japan had already begun to spread.
SPRINKLER FIRE ALARM.
After lunch, I walked the parking lot. Pipes ran exposed along the building wall—painted red, industrial, unapologetic. At the end, a label: “SPRINKLER FIRE ALARM.” In Japan, such systems are hidden. Here, they were visible, assertive, functional. There was something undeniably cool about it—I had to take a photo.
The Colors of Velvia.
I pulled out my Canon T90—“the Tank”—loaded with Fujifilm Velvia 50. Through the viewfinder: a red valve, rusted pipes, green hedges, a white wall. Under California’s hard light, every color came alive. Just fire equipment—yet strangely beautiful. And I realized: this trip would be a chain of small discoveries.
The road trip had only just begun.