We first stepped off the train at Matsumoto Station several years ago. It was August and the ripening rice paddies tinted the surrounding farmland chartreuse. Conifers darkened the distant hills. We were greeted by the eerie, long announcement that makes the station famous. "Matsumotoooo, Matsumotoooo," came the chanting call over the speakers as we dragged our bags up the station stairs, suitcases bumping heavily against each step.
My boyfriend and I had come to Japan to teach English, and Matsumoto was our first home here together. In the weeks that followed, we settled into our apartment (an ordinary, blocky building tucked amid fields), and adjusted ourselves to our teaching schedules (afternoons and evenings at a tiny conversation school). We spent lazy mornings exploring the city, meeting streets, sights, and supermarkets with equal enthusiasm.
After work, released from stilted classroom conversations, we'd wander the dark streets at night, joining friends at the cozy little bars and izakayas (Japanese-style pubs) that pepper the city. Crowded, hot and confessional, with menus written up on the walls and a staff of one, we'd find ourselves ordering "just one more round" for hours, and then, finally, stumbling out into what was left of the night, or sometimes into the pale light of early morning.