Letter from the Amami Islands

On the writing of cities and nature

But the rain will stop, they say, and it will get cooler and you will truly enjoy this little unobtrusive place on earth.

For the first time since arrival the entire week’s weather is forecast below 30 degrees (86F); autumn is in Fukuoka, but I am in the Amami Islands, toward Okinawa, where it is still just as hot and humid. I have been jetted off with seventeen-year-old students for an ecological and cultural week. The itinerary is filled with buses, boats, and flights, dropping us down in spots of beauty or cultural fascination…or those set up for touristic experiences.

We kayaked through mangroves and observed a professional fish slicer, who is also a firefighter and online sensation (sashimi influencer?); we avoided the bite of a paralyzing spider on a forest walk and were warned about snakes in the bush whose venom could kill within the hour; we dyed t-shirts with mud and learned about the values of local textiles; we danced and cooked at the community center. It was rich and vast, but I found myself craving the peace of solo exploration or at least just some time to read or reflect. To write.

Amami, Japan — view of the East China Sea (left) and Pacific Ocean (right)

This is unsurprising for a school trip. Those who have done it will tell you of the joys and of the utter exhaustion. But I’m not putting in a complaint; it is what it is. What fascinated me, what gave me hope in this warped reality that is emerging on our screens and streets, is that one evening with an hour before dinner, two students asked me if I could take them down to the adjacent beach to read. They, too, felt constrained by the constant move toward the next activity or the waiting for the next thing to start.

With heavy books in hand, we began our departure, but before we moved down the hill and out of reach, several others came running along with their books to join. A total of nine (out of thirty-one) and one with a journal and pen. “I’m writing a sci-fi story,” he said, “But today I think I’ll just write some random stuff.” Later that night at the talent show he would perform a solo Frank Sinatra tune, completely off-key, but with the enthusiasm and humble confidence of somebody who writes.

During the short walk, the others told me about character development and critiqued the quality of the prose in their hands (unbidden). And as we approached the sea, they all spread out to sand, logs, and rock for perches to turn pages and immerse themselves.

Another evening, I led the students in a multilingual journal reflection. Nobody tried to duck out. Some moved into poetry.

I was thinking about inspiration and the beautiful, and often vicious, natural world vs the incredible, and often overwhelming, displays of culture and personalities we find in cities. In Amami Oshima, I had wrongly assumed most of our guides would be local, but many had moved there from Tokyo during the pandemic. These transplants, some of whom had also lived in the US in places like Los Angeles, had come for the peace.

I often consider escaping to some place like this. Not Amami, but a similarly secluded place. The Alps? The Maine Woods? But cities also regenerate my mind.

Back home on the evening before departure, we had managed to organize a babysitter for a visit to the Asian Art Fair, a quick stop at a tinsy-tiny Irish pub showing the baseball, and a seven-course meal at a French brasserie. The slightly cooled weather lifted me into the night and the experience lingered in my mind during hours on the bus with the teens, looking out at vast greenery and Pacific Ocean. I thought about the hikes and bike rides along the coast we could now tackle in Fukuoka. I thought, too, about the flâneurism of fall and the way autumn leaves complement the echoes of the buzz of Paris Fashion Week everywhere and the movement of happy creatures into art spaces and cozy cafes.

Then I realize that I’ve landed in one of those magical spots where it’s easy to have both — the city and the countryside — even within a day. With the weather comes the chance to travel within adjacent spaces: to see, to dwell, to be a part of these scenes and find language to interact with it all.