HirOktoberfest and Hanshin-mania

I bolted wide awake. After sinking into a lager-induced stupor, something disturbing had roused me. The opening notes of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” had activated my brain’s fight-or-flight response. While you might hear the 1981 smash hit at a baseball game, shopping at Target, or at the karaoke you regret going to, as a fan of The Sopranos, it has a more sinister connotation to me. It sounded like danger. And just when you think you’ve heard it so many times, you have every synthesizer lick and drum fill down pat, here comes the accordion to liven things up. That’s right, folks, here at Hiroshima Oktoberfest, they go the extra mile to ensure your cultural immersion, complete with a band in lederhosen playing Germanish renditions of your favorite Japanese and Western tunes. And don’t worry, they’ve got Macarena too. Leave your kampai at the door because tonight it’s nothing but probst! Why not join the conga line while you’re at it? While the musical choices – “Don’t Stop Believin’” was preceded by “Country Roads,” with “Highway To Hell” before that – might have been the most recent crime perpetrated by a German-Japanese alliance, they were not the most heinous.

Folks, I kid. I actually had a great time at Hiroshima Oktoberfest. It was one of the highlights of my busy three-day weekend. But let’s just say that the music was not my favorite. Let’s recap.

In Japan, the third Monday of September is a public holiday known as Respect for the Aged Day. According to Wikipedia, in 1963, the Japanese government started giving commemorative silver sake cups to those who had reached the centenarian mark. In 1963, they gave away just 153 cups, but by 2017 that number had ballooned to over 32,000, and the cups were replaced with silver-plated nickel ones half the size of the original. At any rate, we have Monday off. A few weeks ago, some of my Matsuyama friends informed me that they had an extra Hanshin Tigers ticket available that was mine for the taking, if I could get myself to Osaka by gameday. They immediately followed this statement by telling me that due to the World Expo currently being held in Osaka, the bus tickets to/from Osaka on Friday/Monday had long been sold out. But for a Hanshin Tigers ticket? I would hitchhike to Koshien Stadium, if need be.

So to get to Osaka, my plan was to take the ferry from Matsuyama to Hiroshima, from where I could take the bullet train. Though this roundabout way was more expensive than a bus ride, it would be more comfortable, quicker (in terms of actual time spent in transit), and I could spend a day in Hiroshima. 

I would have left right after school ended on Friday, but that evening I had an enkai (drinking party) with the Iyo Board of Education. It was held in the upstairs room of a traditional restaurant in Iyo. There were maybe 20 people total, including my fellow Iyo ALTs. Given that it was thrown in honor of the new arrivals (me and Jazmyne), we got to sit at the table with the bosses. And by sit, I mean on the tatami floor, cross-legged. Not an easy feat for someone on the taller side with limited lower-body flexibility. We had a set meal with some sashimi (including the local specialty of tai, or sea bream), eggplant with tare (a sweet, thick soy sauce, a salad with meat, some duck slices, and shrimp.

To drink was Asahi, and plenty of it. At an enkai, it is considered a show of respect to refill the glasses of others (“those who want respect, give respect”). As such, I was angling to refill one of the bosses’ glasses all night (the other boss stuck to tea). I got three such opportunities, although everyone else was coming over to refill his glass as well. So at an enkai, if you don’t want to drink anymore, you leave your glass full. We had some good conversations with the bosses, facilitated by Himeka, a school board staffer my age who serves as our unofficial translator. Jazmyne and I relayed the presence of Japanese communities on the West Coast (Uwajimaya is of much interest, given that there is a nearby town called Uwajima), and we also discussed the differences in personalities for people from the West Coast and East Coast (there are similar cultural differences in Japan). I stood up to go to the bathroom, and had to brace myself on the windowsill because my legs had gone completely numb. The restaurant was one of those places in Japan where it feels like everything is fragile and could crumble into a fine dust at my slightest touch, much like the set of The Eric Andre Show.

These photos don’t capture how strange the vibe of this restaurant was, with red carpeted hallways that were small and narrow, with low ceilings, and seemingly went on forever in never-ending series of twists and turns… rather Lynchian, as I commented to no one who knew what I was talking about (side note: I’m doing it again, I’m insufferable need to be stopped, but unfortunately I feel no shame)

I was concerned I was going to fall onto and through my little table/tray thing like Chris Farley on SNL. Two more rounds of food came by, a basket of tempura, and katsudon, for which the restaurant is famous for. Some of us were still hungry (and thirsty) after it was time to leave the restaurant, so we ended up at an okonomiyaki restaurant just down the street.

The following morning, I managed to crawl out of bed at 7:30, throw some clothes in my bag, and was out the door by 8:45. I was aiming to get the 10:20 ferry from the tourist port, so when I got to Matsuyama City Station to change trains, I opted to get on the soonest train to Takahama over grabbing breakfast and cash at 7-Eleven. After taking the train to the end of the line and a brief trip on the shuttle, I got to the port at 9:50.

My ticket on the SuperJet (fast boat) was 8800 yen ($60), and on the recommendation of a German guy, I snagged a frozen pork and egg bowl from the gift shop, which they were happy to heat up for me (the cafe was closed).

Pros and cons of traveling by ferry. Pros: you get to look out the window, you have more legroom (depending on the ferry) compared to a bus or plane, and you can also get up and walk around. Cons: you might get slightly seasick, as I did while I conducted fantasy football business (although that also might have been last night’s beers talking).

I listened to Yosuke Yukimatsu’s Boiler Room set (contemplating going to Tokyo to see him in November – I’m trying to get into techno/house/whatever-you-call-it-electronic-music) and Butcher Brown’s Solar Music (thank you Leo). 

It only took about an hour on the SuperJet to get to Hiroshima Port, but then it took another hour on the streetcar to reach the city center. I traded Josh Downs for Brian Robinson (I’m heavy on WRs and light on RBs, and when Christian McCaffrey goes down, Robinson will be in line for a heavy workload).

I walked into my hostel, which appeared to be a bar (is that a good sign or a bad sign?). There was only one other person there, an American staff member who said I could just leave my bag, so I dropped it and set off on foot.

The picture on the right is unfortunately not my hostel

As I made my way to my restaurant of choice for lunch, I walked by the Atomic Bomb Dome. I had already been to Hiroshima and experienced the museum and various memorials – while it was extremely impactful, it wasn’t what I wanted to do with my one day in Hiroshima. The dome and surrounding area was mobbed with tourists, including one white guy in a Pikachu visor. He seemed respectful enough, but his attire just did not match the solemn vibe, like seeing someone with a “I paused my game to be here” shirt at Auschwitz.

The irony of Modi gifting a Gandhi statue was not lost on me…

Seeing so many tourists was a bit of a shock for me coming from Matsuyama, where seeing another foreigner is a curiosity. Japan is experiencing a tourism issue at the moment, which I pondered as I ate my mazemen (the issue: too many of them). The tourists are funny, because while half of them are young, attractive, and very fashionable – as if they’re waiting for you to take their picture – the other half are the usual pasty, sweaty hordes. But their presence does make me look good when I bust out my Japanese, because locals don’t expect that from a white boy such as myself. In Matsuyama, there are so few foreigners that no one is impressed by my borderline-passable nihongo. The clientele of the small shop was about half tourists, some of whom were very concerned about the presence and potential contamination of pork. My mazemen was satisfyingly spicy, and I had a side of fried oysters as well (Hiroshima is famous for oysters), although the mazemen wasn’t as good as the first time I had it in Sapporo… still chasing that high. 

A 7/10 on the spice scale negated the need for Sichuan pepper

After lunch, I headed for the main shopping street. On the ferry I had scouted some secondhand clothing stores, and there was a whole floor of them in an unassuming mall. Most of the clothes and many of the customers were American, but I schnored around for a while (a thought I also had when I visited the over-hyped thrift stores of Johor Bahru – the margins on cleaning out an American Goodwill and shipping the clothes to Asia must be crazy, considering how some of these items are priced). The most comforting find? A vintage Cannon Beach crewneck. The most surprising find? A child-sized Dwayne Haskins jersey (RIP). The find I would have bought if it wasn’t too small? A graphic tee advertising Pharrell Williams’s annual “Something in the Water” music/art festival in his hometown of Virginia Beach.

Pharrell is, of course huge in Japan, albeit probably more for his fashion – in addition to being the Men’s Creative Director for Louis Vuitton, he started his own streetwear brand, Billionaire Boys Club, in a partnership with Nigo, the Japanese creator of another streetwear brand, A Bathing Ape. I’ve been on a big Pharrell music kick, started by his Lego documentary Piece by Piece (2024), which I saw in the theater, and culminating in the Clipse album this summer (produced by Pharrell). For those who don’t know, Pharrell produced much of the defining music of the 21st century, for everyone from Jay-Z to Justin Timberlake. The coolest find that I didn’t even check the price of because I knew it would be too expensive? An ATU (Amalgamated Transit Union) jacket. Union jackets are the #1 thing I look for at thrift stores, with tracksuits and graphic tees in second and third place, respectively. I ended up buying a vintage Columbia jacket (yes it’s made of nylon, but man, those colors just pop) as well as a track suit jacket for about $30 total.

A humorous crewneck on the left (IYKYK) and me with my new jacket making a stupid face on the Shinkansen

After my thrifting, I headed over to Hiroshima Gate Park, where on my way in, I had spotted Oktoberfest. Now I had never been to Oktoberfest, but I knew what to expect: good beer and bad food.

I got my beer and sat down next to a Japanese couple about my parents’ age, and we ended up talking for almost two hours. Topics ranged from education (Shinji is a P.E. teacher and Miori works for the school board) to life in Japan compared to life in America (Miori attended a high school study abroad program in South Bend thanks to a scholarship from Hiroshima-based Mazda) to politics. When I mentioned that my mom had been an ALT in Iwate-ken, they recommended the works of author and poet Iwate native Kenji Miyazawa, and Kenji expressed his love for Joe Montana.

Eventually they had to go, so I bid them adieu and turned my attention to the group of Americans sitting next to me. They were in their late 20s, and it was hard to pin down exactly what they did but they were military personnel, working for the Marines, flying planes. But apparently not like Top Gun, or so they said. One of them is a CU Boulder alum and claims to be the niece of the illustrious Pasta Jay. During one of my beer runs I encountered another group of Americans who did the same job, although at a different location. After maybe thirty minutes of chatting, the Americans left to go to Shake Shack. It was about this time that I heard “Don’t Stop Believin’,” so I left before anyone could come out of the men’s room in a Members Only jacket.

The okonomiyaki restaurant I wanted to go to (Hiroshima is famous for their own type of regional okonomiyaki, which features noodles) was due to close in 50 minutes and the queues were legendary, so I opted for a more local spot. And by more local, I mean a tiny place where there was just one family eating and a woman who I couldn’t tell if she was a customer or an incredibly surly waitress. I sat at the counter, and was quickly joined by an Australian who had recently left his job as a music teacher in London. He resorted to teaching when he wasn’t able to make it as a jazz drummer – we debated the merits of Art Blakey and Max Roach, he professed a deep appreciation for Tony Williams, and I forgot to mention Idris Muhammad but I’m guessing he would have been impressed by that pull. Now that I write this, I also should have mentioned Whiplash (2014) but I bet he’s pretty sick of people asking if he was rushing or dragging.

The okonomiyaki was entirely unremarkable, and the old man behind the counter omitted mayo for reasons that escape me. After eating I called it a night, as I wanted to get up early to get the Shinkansen to Osaka, and headed back to my hostel. I showered, spent a few minutes sitting and chatting at the bar (where a Japanese staff member said that he really wanted to visit Portland – I guess Fox News hasn’t managed to completely ruin our reputation) where the bartender treated me to a caipirinha. Turns out that upstairs, above the bar, there are beds and bathrooms. The beds are all in cubbies in the wall, which makes it feel a little bit like you’re in the basement at the Fisher & Sons/Diaz Funeral Home, but I slept okay. I’m not sure what the farting etiquette is at hostels, but during the night I heard what sounded like someone falling out of their top bunk immediately followed by a fart, as if their impact on the ground produced the fart.

My nightcap and bed for the night

I climbed out of my coffin at 8:30, and managed to get the 9:33 Shinkansen to Osaka. Though the tickets are expensive – just under 10,000 yen, or $67 – the trains run so often that your ticket is good for any train that day. And for a popular route like Hiroshima to Osaka, they run about every 10 minutes. I sat next to a fashionable girl with dyed hair, and immediately made her my enemy by pulling out an egg salad sandwich. We zoomed along at nearly 200 mph, and it took us just over an hour to get to Shin-Osaka. When I got off the train, I was thrust into the ninth circle of hell. A massive train station, packed to the gills with people teeming in every direction.

Groups of confused travelers, Japanese and foreign alike, huddle in the most inconvenient places with gargantuan suitcases blocking everyone’s path. There are massive lines for everything, from bathrooms to turnstiles to escalators. I somehow manage to get down to the Midosuji metro line and take it one stop north. As I exited the subway car, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I don’t remember Osaka being this crowded. I assume the already giant city has been mobbed since March as Osaka has been hosting the World Expo. According to Wikipedia, the projected visitor count is 28 million, which is an average of 153,000 per day. From what I can figure, the World Expo is the modern-day manifestation of the old World’s Fairs, where every country has a pavilion to advertise themselves. Apparently they were called World’s Fairs until 1967 when Montreal decided they wanted to be different and used the term exposition – or expo for short – instead, and even named their baseball team the Expos when they came around two years later. I figured World’s Fairs had basically been killed off by the Internet, but judging by how crowded Osaka is, it’s still a big deal.

I met up with Linus and Richard, Matsuyama ALTs, at a mall and it was time for lunch. Now Osaka has many foods that it is famous for – including okonomiyaki and takoyaki – but I’ve been eating Japanese food for six weeks, and jumped at the opportunity to be in a big city and eat something else. So many options, but we had heard a rumor that there was a Jamaican community in Osaka, and we set out on foot for a Jamaican restaurant. We walked for half an hour with dreams of oxtail and Red Stripe (and saw a massive Falun Gong parade on the way, complete with a marching band – do the Scientologists have a marching band?) , but when we arrived we found the restaurant shuttered. Bomboclaat! We quickly pivoted to Plan B: Sichuan food.

As I may have mentioned, Japan has a lot of Chinese-ish dishes. A lot of Japanese food (and culture, language, etc) has been adapted from China. However, these dishes fit the Japanese palate, and I had a hankering for some real authentic, melt your tongue-spicy Chinese food. Like cartoon characters, we floated through the air following the smell of Sichuan peppercorns and cumin until we arrived at a small basement restaurant. No one in there was speaking Japanese (our waitress spoke a little, not much more than me) – I wondered if these were all locals in the Osaka Sichuan community, or if they were tourists who came for a taste of home. Regardless, the place was packed, and the menu was entirely in Chinese as well. Not knowing how to read Chinese, we asked for their recommendation, and under the tutelage of some kids who were slightly concerned about these white boys’ spice tolerance, ordered a pork stir-fry, a shredded potato dish, and the piece de resistance, a whole fish braised in red-hot sauce, with clams, mushrooms, tofu, noodles, and all sorts of other good bits floating around (which I often saw people eating in Singapore). Equipped with bibs, we dug in with gusto. Our tongues burned, noses flowed like faucets, and we saw psychedelic visions courtesy of the magical Sichuan peppercorns (ahem… sichuanedelic?). 

YES!!! I’m a sicko for Sichuan, a mala masochist, if you will

Bursting to the gills with hot spicy oil, we waddled to Amerika-mura (lit., “America village”) so Linus could snag the baseball tickets from their capsule hotel. Ame-mura, as it’s known, is a neighborhood popping with Western-oriented shops and restaurants, including a lot of thrift stores. While there are some foreigners, especially in the thrift shops, it is mostly fashionable Japanese who are aficionados of Western culture (or, reverse weebs). Having done my thrifting yesterday, I merely browsed the band shirts (including some ratty Liquid Blue Grateful Dead shirts that were priced in the neighborhood of $100) and blue jeans, and was thankful that I had done my shopping in a more affordable shop back in Hiroshima. We swapped out Richard for John/Ethan Criddle (I’m glad to have a friend that I can refer to exclusively by his last name, I’ve always wanted one), who had opted to eat at a Pokemon cafe instead. While chilling at Triangle Park – maybe the best people-watching I’ve ever done in Japan, as skaters, wannabe gangsters, tourists, and families all mingle to smoke and day drink – a homeless artist captured Linus and my names in graffiti. A quick look at my watch revealed it was time to make our way to the game.

Artist posing with his take on my name… I can’t decipher it but it looks cool

The Hanshin Tigers play in the legendary Koshien Stadium, which is located closer to Kobe than Osaka. The stadium was built in 1924 to host the annual national high school baseball tournament – Japan’s answer to March Madness – and has housed the Tigers since their first season in 1936. The Koshien tournament is such a big deal that the Tigers have to schedule their home games around it. The stadium is said to have been inspired by Wrigley Field, as ivy wraps around the brick exterior. Like Wrigley, Koshien is a cozy park, 312 feet down the baselines and 387 to center, and seats 47,400. This fits, as my MLB comparison for the Hanshin Tigers is the Chicago Cubs (this is part of a larger comparison between Chicago and Osaka; both second cities, both have a blue collar/gritty ethos, deep dish = okonomiyaki, need I say more?). Both have a long, tortured history, with a curse to boot.

Scenes outside the stadium, including the long but orderly line for the team store

The Tigers’ answer to the Cubs’ Curse of the Billy Goat (in which a local tavern owner cursed the team in 1945 after he and his pet goat were asked to leave the stadium, the Cubs would not win the pennant again until 2016) is the Curse of the Colonel. The story goes that after the Tigers finally won their first Japan Series championship (Japanese equivalent to the World Series) in 1985, fans were celebrating by jumping into the canal that runs through Osaka’s nightlife district (side note: the canal is, by Japanese standards, absolutely foul – I wouldn’t jump in unless my long-tortured sports team had finally won the chip). Fans yelled out the name of every player on the team, and for every player’s name, a fan who looked like them leapt into the river. When they got to star slugger Randy Bass (who was the MVP of the Central League, hit 54 home runs, one shy of the all-time record, and won the batting Triple Crown) exuberant fans, lacking a bearded Caucasian, opted for a storefront statue of Colonel Sanders and tossed him into the Dotonbori Canal.

Yeah, I see the resemblance…

In the following years, the Tigers became one of the worst teams in the league (though Bass continued his incredible run by winning the Triple Crown again in 1986 and hitting .389, a record that still stands). During the years of misery, many attempts to recover the Colonel were made in the hopes that doing so would lift the curse. Though the statue was eventually retrieved in 2009, the Tigers didn’t win it all again until 2023. And when they did, fans celebrated by jumping into the canal despite heavy police presence, including a fan dressed up as the Colonel himself.

Fans celebrate in 2023

The following year, with the curse finally lifted, KFC Japan laid the recovered statue to rest with a ceremony. 

Absolutely gorgeous view

Gone are the days of the curse. After winning the championship in 2023, the Tigers finished three games back from the Yomuri (Tokyo) Giants before losing in the first round of the playoffs last year to the Yokohama DeNA BayStars, and are back for revenge this year as they maintain a whopping 15 game lead in the Central League standings. Linus somehow manage to finagle tickets that aren’t supposed to be available to foreigners (as you need to provide a Japanese name in kanji) and though we were maybe 15-20 rows from the top of the center field bleachers, it’s such a small stadium that we felt right in the middle of the action. Of course, it also helps when you’re in a rowdy fan section that cheers constantly when Tigers are at the plate.

And I don’t just mean some light applause, the atmosphere is closer to a European soccer match than any American baseball game. Cheer leaders (not girls with pom poms, think drill sergeants with whistles) lead specific cheers for every batter that comes to the plate, with subtitles on the Jumbotron so you can follow along. Passionate fans wave flags and play instruments. There’s even a small section of away fans who can be heard cheering loudly when the Tigers are on defense. Though the Tigers lost 1-0 (unexpectedly, especially considering it was to the lowly Chunichi Dragons of Nagoya, who sit 22.5 games back from Hanshin in the standings), affordable food and beverage (1500 yen for a beer/edamame/yakitori combo, with subsequent drinks right at your seat poured by girls with kegs on their backs) made it an excellent time by all. I haven’t been to Wrigley yet, but seeing a game in a small stadium that is packed with rowdy fans – like I did at Fenway – is night and day compared to a game at Nats Park that is 2/3rds empty.

A few MLB players who spent time in NPB: Cecil Fielder (1 year with Hanshin), Adam Jones (2 years with the Orix Buffaloes, Kobe/Osaka’s second team), the disgraced Trevor Bauer, and Goose Gossage, who used a season with Fukuoka to extend his Hall-of-Fame MLB career another four years. Also Kevin Youkilis and Alfonso Soriano, but they only played a career 30 games in NPB combined. We cap off the night back in Osaka with some yakitori at Torikizoku.

When I get back to my capsule hotel at around midnight, I finally check in. This is my first time staying in a capsule hotel, and I would describe it like a futuristic dorm. You have a little sleeping berth, kind of like last night in Hiroshima but more sleek, less like a cave. You get a locker to put your stuff in, a towel, and pajamas. The bathrooms, like a dorm, are communal, but unlike a dorm are stocked with everything you need from shampoo and conditioner to floss and razors. Though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it’s pretty nice.

I managed to rouse myself and check out of the hotel at 9:45. I have the whole day to get back home, and I’m not in any particular rush. I inquired if I could leave my bag at my hotel while I go explore Osaka some more, and I am told it will cost 500 yen. While that’s just a few bucks, I reason that I can go to Shin-Osaka station (just one subway stop away), and leave my bag in a locker for a similar price – that way I won’t have to stop back at the hotel on my way out of town. On my way to a coffee shop down the street, I pop into Lawson for some hangover cures. While there’s basically a whole shelf in konbinis for such remedies, some light research leads me to choose two different tinctures, which I choke down before my coffee. The orange one you’re supposed to drink before a night of imbibing, but not all of us are equipped with the gift of foresight. It’s supposed to be turmeric-based, and tastes awfully chalky. The green one is minty and has a cough syrup-like medicinal flavor. I wash them down with some Pocari Sweat before tucking into my delicious Caribbean blend flat white. Then I head back to Shin-Osaka station.

For whatever reason, I failed to take into account that the station would be a madhouse, even though I experienced it firsthand yesterday. Navigating through the station is a nightmare, and when the first three lockers I visit are full, I decide to just get the hell out of dodge. I guess I should have just left my bag at the capsule hotel and forked over the 500 yen. I wait in a massive line to buy some omiyage for the staffroom and an ekiben for myself.

Eki is train station and ben as in bento: this was the most popular option, with an assortment of starches, protein, and veggies (that’s not very descriptive, but honestly I didn’t even know what I was eating as I ate it – tasted great though)

At least I got a window seat on the Shinkansen this time. I arrive in Hiroshima around 1, and get back on the streetcar for the port. This time, I’m taking the slow boat back to Matsuyama. It takes about three hours instead of one, but I’m not in a rush. I hang out on the deck and watch the world go by.

Soundtrack for this ferry ride: Yacht Rock 2 by the Alchemist and Agua Dulce by Cal Tjader

All in all, it was a busy weekend. My favorite part was the baseball game, followed by chatting with strangers at Oktoberfest. The best thing I ate was definitely the Sichuan fish. Usually I don’t like traveling so far to spend such a short time in a place, but for the Hanshin Tigers you drop everything. I’m also pleased with my Hiroshima thrift haul. I spent some time in the Tigers team store looking at hats, but much like Shin-Osaka station it was uncomfortably crowded, and I wasn’t enamoured with any of the options. I think the old-school Tiger logo is much cooler than the “TH” one, but they only had it on some smaller, effeminate hats. I had such a great time at the game that I might want to check out the more local Hiroshima Carp before the end of the season, which is rapidly approaching. I’m also finally getting paid this week (thank god), my wallet needs a serious breather after this weekend.

I capped off my long weekend with a sensational tempura dinner near Matsuyama City Station. I had the season summer set, which came with some white fish, shiso-wrapped chicken, bell pepper, baby corn, zucchini, renkon (lotus root), and finally this corn-fritter thing which was the best by far. I also opted for a tempura’d egg, with a runny yolk that is meant to be broken over your bowl of rice.

P.S. I’ve been hearing that people are having difficulty leaving comments. While this upsets me, I’m really indebted to WordPress at this point, and while a newer-fangled platform like Substack might be more comment friendly, if I try to leave WordPress will send goons to my house with lead pipes, Tonya Harding-style (Portland native, by the way). So instead, I’m gonna put a link to a Google Form where you can leave a comment, so we’ll try it that way and see how it goes. Here it is, take it for a spin: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfH3_ssKLtWRHGhC6m7InL7HvqTP48TUJHzRouhXike2erWzA/viewform?usp=dialog

Peace!