Passport Stamp: Japan-Finale, pt. 1
In Shinto, the indigenous Japanese religion, of which many of the values, spirituality, and concepts have trickled down through time, has a fascinating creation myth. If I were to paraphrase it into modern English, it would probably go something like this:
In the beginning, the earth was formless, “like tallow upon water, drifting like a jellyfish” (an actual quote from the myth). Some gods appear out of nowhere and they basically are the underlying mysteries and powers of the universe, like the infinity stones of Marvel fame. Then, six generations of other gods who all arrive in a pair (again, just out of nowhere). The last one of these are a sister and brother duo named Izanagi and Izanami. These two are tasked with creating Japan (and, in essence, the entire world). The other gods before them give a weapon of mass creation, the cosmic “spear of heaven”. Izanagi and Izanami thrust the spear into the formless jellyfish of abyssal chaos. Blood and salt drip down the blade and congeal upon the young face of the cosmos and become the first island in the Japanese archipelago, the genesis of the all and always.
It is a spectacular feat of human genius to think of such a tale. No novelist or poet could think of something more brilliant. It suggests that the Earth must certainly be formed from an open wound. That even in the beginning, there was pain. All that was born and forever to be born would begin in blood. It is quite a dark and macabre tale for something as beautiful as creation.
It makes sense that the Japanese would think such things of the world, for pain was all it ever gave them. Japan is centered on what geologists lovingly call, the Ring of Fire. While surely, other places are included in the Ring of Fire, Japan seems to get the blue heat of its flame. Earthquakes happen regularly. In fact, while I was there, a 5.4 magnitude hit Tokyo. That’s a baby. It’s also nearly ten percent stronger than the earthquake that recently hit New York. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, landslides, floods, typhoons, blizzards, and monsoons are frequent in Japan. Recently the worst of these happened in 2011. In March of 2011, a massive 9.1 magnitude earthquake and subsequent tsunami with astounding 133 ft. waves obliterated a nuclear power plant in Fukushima, causing a meltdown over the next month. Furthermore, Japan has been the only country that has seen the horrors of the nuclear bomb up close. The laundry list of natural and unnatural disasters showcases that hideous creation might still be bleeding.
However, despite that ever-bleeding cosmic wound, the Japanese have never stopped. Rather, they have remained a world leader in just about every category. All of this is encased within the phrase shikata ga nai. Shikata ga nai means (as best as we can translate it into English), “it cannot be helped”. It is a phrase that acknowledges the futility of trying to fix the chaos. It will always be there. It has stricken before, and it will strike again. There is nothing that can be done. The wound will never be closed. Pain is merely a natural reaction to the bleeding chaos. And it is forever. It will never end.
But since it cannot be helped, our default is hope. Shikata ga nai is a phrase of resilience and fearlessness in the face of inevitable and unimaginable chaos. The past has spoken. Whether it be curse or blessing, it can no longer be helped. So, what say we in the present, in light of the past, to prepare for the possibilities of tomorrow?
I read, thought, and wrote about these things while sitting on a park bench in Omiya, right after I got back from Kyoto. I was becoming increasingly more meditative on these people and this place. I began to ask myself, “What can I truly learn here?”. If I don’t ask that question, this was just another passport stamp. Why did I even come if not to glean wisdom and knowledge? Behind every stamp on my passport are lessons about who I am, what the world is, and the ever-shrinking bridge between the two. Until now I’ve gathered some funny stories, met some wonderful old people, ate a ton, seen some temples, ranted about some tourists, and talked about nothing. But, in the end, I must return to that gnawing mystery, that haunting inquiry that looms in the back of every mind:
Why am I, indeed, here?
Day 5 ½: Fear and Loathing in Omiya
The night is alive in Omiya. The flash of the neon cascade assaults the senses. I remain in a state of cathartic silence. I did not, could not speak to anyone. I did not, could not read the signs and steps around me. It was the full weight and blunt force trauma of shock and awe. Everything I loved about this place was given to me in an intravenous injection. Like a junkie to his vice, I gripped the night sky with my tracked hand, and plunged my addiction to Japan into my bloodstream.
In hindsight, the night felt hauntingly slow and blurred at the same time. I didn’t do much. I couldn’t do much. I was an illiterate ape waltzing around another country trying my best to evolve. In Japan, glory is found in alleyways. Main streets have virtually nothing to offer. They are merely modes of transport from one alleyway filled with food to another. The city itself is littered with these alleyways, making it a maze of sights and smells. The boil and bubble rising from ramen broth, the sizzle of mystery meat on a hot griddle, the laughing kids moving from place to place, the old men discussing their disappointments, and the ever-present buzz of neon signs.
I wanted to stop and stare, marvel at where I was at, as I often do. To just have a moment and take it all in. But it all moves. The tidal wave of the hungry and the fed push you hither and thither. You have no choice in the matter. You cannot help where you are placed. So you just move with it. There’s nothing else you can do—Shikata ga nai.
No one dares meet your gaze. Everyone minds their own way. You push your way through, hoping you remember that everyone walks on the opposite side that you’re used to. I feel like I’m a friendly enough guy, and I wanted badly to strike up a conversation, make a friend, and ask them a question. But between the language and the cultural standard of simply not interacting with people you don’t know, I became increasingly alienated, a near overdose on shock and awe.
I shook it off, wiped my eyes, and set out on a quest to find some dinner.
I must have walked up and down four or five alleyways before landing on a ramen spot. The sea of people almost pushed me in there. Again, you have no choice in the matter. You let the push and pull of the crowd and the smells draw you in. I had no idea what kind of place it was. I knew only one thing; there was a wait. That’s almost a sure sign that whatever is offered is good enough for the locals, the everyday, the Norm from Cheers. It seemed like a place everyone knew everyone.
The entire place could have been contained within my apartment back here in the States. It sat maybe a dozen people and had a line outside the door. Once you’re in, you’ll notice no tables, just tiny cubicles with place mats on three stretches of wooden bars. When the host motioned me over to my position, I grabbed my seat and was given a tablet. The electronic kind, not what Moses etched the Ten Commandments on. Again, Japan almost completely got rid of the middleman in ordering your food. There’s virtually no human interaction with waitstaff. Coming from the South, where waiters basically perform the same charismatic connectivity as pastors, it was frustrating.
I had no idea what the menu said. The tablet, by the grace of the almighty, had pictures. Surely in the case some simpleton walked in not knowing Japanese. I hit some pictures that looked good and patiently waited for in a hungry purgatory. While waiting, I noticed this wasn’t necessarily the place I thought it was. It wasn’t the bar from Cheers, it wasn’t Seinfeld’s apartment, it wasn’t that central location where characters would stroll in, and everyone would yell in excitement. The only noise was coming from the few people there on dates and, of course, the slurping. It was, by and large, single men eating, looking at either their phones or the wall in front of them.
I was given my bowl of ramen and fried rice and began slurping, as the Slurpgod tends to do. Again, ramen in Japan was a lot like pizza in the US; even when it’s bad its still pretty good. However, this one seemed not as flavorful as the one in Kyoto, nor was it as bold and beautiful as some I’ve had in Tokyo. This one seemed like a run of the mill bowl. It seemed normal. The fried rice was a little over seasoned with pepper. Was this…a BAD meal? In Japan? How dare I even nurture the thought? This was MY TIME. My solo adventure into the wild unknown of Eastern glory. I wanted my moment of racing down the freeway, careless and penniless but reveling in the glory of the boundless blue sky before me. Or perhaps something even worse: maybe I got used to having ramen. Maybe I had gotten bored with joy, too acquainted with paradise. Did I eat so much of Eden’s delectable fruit that the forbidden tree looked enticing?
I’m not sure what it is about ramen, but it makes me think things like this. It makes me reevaluate my whole life, my whole existence, my purpose, my meaning. As I sat there and slurped away at my bowl, I realized what was missing: my people. The light conversation about nothing that made my everything. The true seasoning of my day. Friends are what make dinner so delicious. Maybe this solo travel thing is not for me. But I must give it a go. One way or another, this was my time alone. I was determined to have my fill and to no longer be bogged down by anyone other than myself.
I finished my bowl, walked down the alleyway, turned the corner, and was entranced by a hypnotic collection of people. It was a line of laughing young adults outside of a small stand on the corner of the street. I glanced over to see what exactly the hoopla was about. It was takoyaki, fried balls of dough and octopus. It was the antidote to my fear and loathing. It soothed a weary soul, hungry for something worth writing a story over. I waited in line for nearly half an hour and ate my octopus on the way back to my BnB. Maybe tomorrow, I will find my soul again in the streets of Tokyo.
Day 6: Alone in Heaven
Today is the day. The apex of my travelling career is upon me. It is my day alone. I’ve been thinking about this day the entire time planning this trip. It would be me against the world. It’s me, Jacob, the Slurpgod, the Shogun, the Squirtquake, climbing the daunting and dizzying height of solo travel. I’ve never done it before, but I always wanted to dig my feet into it. I believe it’s because I’m cynical. I’m a jerk. I’m aware of my condition, my ailment, my disease. It’s the demon perched upon my shoulder that rolls my eyes whenever the group I’m travelling with can’t get through customs, or won’t go where I want to go, or decides to eat at the burger chain rather than the local fare. It’s an annoying, projective, psychological torture to know I’m pretentious, and try every way to not be, yet coming up short every time. I’m hindered from doing what I want to do abroad because of the group’s desires. They are tourists. I am a traveler. And today, my day alone, will make the difference.
It was Sunday, and I, as a good Christian boy, wanted to go to church. I woke up nice and early so I can scope out the only two options nearby: a Catholic mass or a Baptist service. These churches were small, local congregations that had no social media, website, or other internet presence. Just like the olden days, the way God intended. It would surely be a break from my norm, no matter where I went. I walked the 15 minutes to Omiya Baptist Church. The Catholic one seemed beautiful but intimidating (maybe that was the point?). It was 8 o’ clock by the time I reached the church, and I utilized the Holy Spirit’s gift of interpreting tongues to figure out the times of services (a.k.a. Google Translate’s camera feature). To my disappointment, church didn’t start until 11:30. Why so late? I mean, during the fall, they would miss the kickoff of Sunday football! Their loss, I guess.
I decided I wouldn’t be able to make it. With the hour-long train ride into Tokyo and a reservation I had made (stay tuned…) I simply couldn’t fit it in—a shame. I love going to church in other countries. It shows, truly, the universal, holy church. The bride in all her glory. It is the single most enlightening experience I’ve had as a Christian. I urge you, dear Christian traveler, whether on vacation or otherwise, go to church. Taste and see the Lord is good in another language, another song, another culture, another flavor. Something magical starts to happen. Your mind becomes open, and you realize that the way you do church is so infinitesimally small in comparison to how the world does church. You may say, “oh I didn’t like how they did that” or “I like the way my church does it better” or “that theological point isn’t what my pastor says” or “they DON’T have free coffee???”. And that’s okay, it never was for you anyways. Make it a point to broaden your mind on how the world worships. In this way you will be able to hear the true heartbeat of his bride.
I walked around the corner to find a quaint coffee shop and ordered some hot cakes, fluffy, nearly raw pancakes that I ate just about every morning, and a mediocre latte (sorry Japan…your coffee just ain’t doing it for me). I wrote, read, and killed some time before I walked over to the train station (eki in Japanese…sorry kinda wanted to show off my Duolingo skills) and started my journey to Tokyo, today’s habitat for the lone wolf seeking prey.
My plan today was simple. I had reservations for a full run-through of the Tokyo National Museum, that would take a few hours. The museum is buried deep in Ueno Park, a humongous 140-acre park in downtown Tokyo so surely there will be some good food, sights, and soon-to-be friends. I wanted to open myself up to getting lost, to leave the door open for glory to meet me in my misdirection. Whether that be fun expats I made friends with, the best hole-in-the-wall soba joint, maybe an actual good cup of coffee, or shenanigans in the gaming halls I was bound to make this the best day of my life.
As I stepped off the train at Ueno Park, I was struck by how many locals were around. On a Sunday in March? This seems kind of odd. I thought to myself. But I pressed on to see what all the fuss was about. Ueno Park reminded me of Central Park in a lot of ways—sprawling hills, trees, city wildlife, and not-quite-blooming cherry blossom trees. It was breathtaking. I took a moment to walk around before my noon appointment with the museum. I heard some music in the background. It was western styled orchestral pieces that I believe resembled Mozart but couldn’t be sure. As I followed the tunes, it became louder and louder. And then came the smells. And lastly the sight.
What I stumbled upon was the moment worth getting lost in. A festival, filled with local street vendors, a stage with an orchestra, and, not exaggerating, probably a million or so people. I found it. The moment. The wave I could ride and couldn’t care less where it would take me. I sat and listened for a moment and, as quickly as I could, found a small matcha place that whipped me up some gorgeous tea. I took it all in. The buzz of the laughter, applause for the musicians, the smell of the grilled mystery meats, the glories stacked upon glories. I believe I had church there. If even for a moment, I became thankful for the small life I had and grateful for the small chance that I got to live it.
However, the moment was cut short. I had to get into the museum. So, I told myself I’d get through the museum as quick as possible so I could return to my date with destiny and get lost within the festival of the cherry blossoms.
Past the famous Ueno fountain lies the largest museum in Japan, Tokyo National Museum. I’m a museum fanatic. I love them. They are the best way to get caught up with all the highlights and lowlights of the life of a nation that you missed because you were either not born or missed it in a book. I pride myself in being a studied person. I’m a weirdo and a freak. Before I stepped foot in this country I read four books, watched several documentaries, consumed only Japanese music for a week, and got all the way to Unit Two in Duolingo. But it was here that all the information I jammed in my brain could be made tangible, visible, and real. My mom always said, “books will bring you places that you never thought could go”. Turns out, like most things, she was right.
I marched up the spiraling marble staircase to all the exhibits, beginning with prehistoric Japan. The Ainu were the first people group to step foot on the islands after Izanami and Izanagi thrusted that spear into the cosmic wound. The Ainu, in as scholastic and academic language as I can muster, were dope. They worshiped bears, lived in the snow, and created the oldest art on the island. Give it a google or read a book, the latter being much preferable. From there, the museum blossomed like cherry trees into a maze of art, artifacts, and wonders from the past. I wandered around the museum and though I could give you the step-by-step explanation of the history and culture of the Japanese I encountered; I will refrain. The museum, quite honestly, was the only place I took pictures and so I remember it well. Nevertheless, I’m going to walk you through two sections and move on. I call this mercy, for I’m sure you wouldn’t be too excited to sit there and read my nerdiness about history, religion, and the humanities bleed onto this page.
First, I would like to share with you the immersive experience of the tea ceremony. The matcha tea ceremony is a pride of Japan as an act of mindfulness and a break from the monotonous drone of everyday life. When you walk into the room, you are given a small bag with all your essentials: a cup, a bag of matcha, and a tea brush. I sat down in the middle of a large room and set my items out exactly as they showed me with the cup in front, the brush off to the side, and the tea to the top right. For the next twenty minutes, a woman in traditional garb came with hot water and I combined the ingredients. I watched as they coagulated together with my brush brooming around the cup. It swirled and swirled to create the dark green tea we all know and enjoy here in the states. It was a momentary suspension of reality. It was the quickest way to reach a flow state, allowing your brain to simply be and do without thought or endeavor. I could see why people were so infatuated with this ceremony. If only the United States had something similar, maybe we’d all stop for a moment and forget who, what, and where we are and descend again into that blessed nothing.
Secondly, I walked through several exhibits of samurai armor. Samurais live in the romantic American mind as stoic, dangerous figure meditating in solitude, ready to duel at a moment’s notice. I was exposed to these marvels of history through one of my favorite books of all time, The Book of Five Rings. Five Rings was written on a mountaintop by a dying, undefeated samurai named Miyamoto Musashi. Musashi wrote Five Rings as his legacy to his students about what it means to be a swordsman. However, in doing that, Musashi gave his philosophy on discipline, difficulty, and life. The lessons within that book are showcased throughout these exhibits on the samurai. Beyond their swordsmanship, samurai were encouraged to be proficient in the “four achievements”: poetry, painting, strategy, and study. These were the height of any Japanese royal worth their weight. Musashi thought likewise. In his book he discusses the importance of “touching upon all the arts” to deepen yourself within your own craft. He believed that as you achieved even the furthest departure from warriorhood, you would begin to see you passion in everything you do. This method would continuously build until you saw the everything in everything, the all and the always, God in the details. This idea is practiced through the bushido code, which pledges the eight virtues of the samurai. There’s something to be said and learned from the devotion of these people, not only to their master (or daimyo), but to their craft and their world.
Ahh…the museum was over. I learned, I read, I thought, I pondered about what this knowledge may mean or how it can be converted to wisdom. But I have one thing on my mind—one singular mission in this day, my solo quest in Tokyo…
I walked back outside, past the Ueno fountain and found myself back in that festival, which had begun to attract all of Tokyo to attend. They traded their orchestra playing Western music to J-pop girl bands with choregraphed dances and electronic backing tracks. It was the most Japanese thing I’ve ever seen—their outrageous costumes and their high-pitched, soft voices spitting out phrase after phrase of pop music for the whole park to hear. It’s not my jam, I would never buy their record. I mean I like heavy music, punk, hardcore, metal, brutality, anger, hammer-smashed faces. I couldn’t believe anyone would like this stuff. I looked around and there was one guy, just one, an older guy too, that was dancing with all of his might. He shouted every line, shadow-played instruments, and danced his heart out with no one to support him or join in. I couldn’t let him be alone. But I also wouldn’t be caught DEAD to even look like I was enjoying this. I let myself, if only for a moment, be caught in a quiet ecstasy of bobbing my head, clapping in applause, and humming the melodies as a poser, giving respect to the true fan.
Music was not my priority. Not even by a light year. It was the food. In my dreams, I still get blessed memories of the whiffs. The vapors of smoke and charcoal surrounded me like a ghost trying to haunt me. It was ferocious. It was diabolical. It was Japanese street food.
I didn’t know where to start. I asked myself the two most important questions when it comes to choosing a street vendor, “Who is the oldest person here?” and “Which stall has the longest line?” By answering those two questions—I found my spot. It was a mother-daughter, or perhaps a grandmother-granddaughter duo grilling unknown meats on an open flame. The line was almost indistinguishable from the crowd. As I waited in line, I tried my best to decipher the hieroglyphics painted along the stall signs to figure out what the heck I’m about to eat. My Google Translate feature couldn’t pick up the stylized, artistic expression that apparently gave me a peak into the mystery I’m about to ingest. It was my turn to the front—the moment of truth. I did, I think, what anybody else would have done. I stuck my head over the grill, took a hit of that savory smoke, and pointed at whatever I thought smelled the best. It looked like beef tip, marinated in what looked like soy sauce and maybe some other oils and spices, plopped on the grill and served on a stick piping hot.
Travel tip #I’m-not-counting: order the mystery. You don’t need to know what it is to enjoy it. Eat now, ask later.
I like steak. In fact, I pride myself in cooking a really good one. But this beef was something different. It melted as you ate, and every bite was another rush of melted fat and flavor that forced my eyebrows to curl inward and croak an involuntary “Good God!” which was very audible and likely heard by unsuspecting locals.
I walked back up to the young woman working the stand and asked “kore wa desu ka”, which is the incorrect way to say, “what is this”?
She laughed and understood I wasn’t from around there and correctly assumed that I was a fumbling illiterate buffoon that had no idea what he just ate.
“Wagyu” she said. Unbelievable stuff. What would’ve cost me a fortune in the states as an exotic and prize piece of meat, I got on a stick off the street for about $3. The only difference? I was closer to the source.
Okay, now I’m on a mission. I’m going to eat everything that smells good at at this festival. With the hum of the latest J-pop band blaring their sound about the park, I followed my nose as if I were deaf, blind, and mute.
What’s next? The almost ubiquitous yakitori, grilled chicken breast, skin, gizzard, thigh, and wing on a skewer, usually seasoned with a tare sauce. Absolutely golden. It was perfect street food; I could eat with one hand while walking and sipping on the most carbonated Sprite you can find. Ate it in two minutes flat. Yet as I was walking around with chicken grease getting caught in my beard, making it nearly a fire hazard, I got a whiff of something I’ve never smelt before. It was effervescent like mint or ginger, yet definitely deep fried. It was something succulent and savory. It was the fragrance of heaven. If heaven had a smell, it would be meat cooking. I’m a theologian and a pastor; you’re forced to believe me. I searched high and low and found the source of the scent.
Tonkatsu. Fried pork. Served with ginger lemon sauce on a paper plate with plastic chopsticks. I’ve certainly died of cardiac arrest and have achieved the most enlightened state suspended in perpetual heavenly bliss. The crunch, the oil, the sauce, and accompanied by me just sitting by a tree in Ueno Park. It felt like the moment I’ve waited a lifetime for. However, a moment of fear and loathing crept up to me again and forced me to ask a question.
What is heaven worth if you’re there alone?
It was here I really wished I had someone to share this moment with. I was furious. Why couldn’t I just enjoy this moment by myself? I felt like I was a puzzle with a missing piece, a motor with one piston not moving as fast as the others. I did what any sane person would do in that moment. I called my best friend in the world, which cost me ten bucks (thanks AT&T), to see if I could share at least a little of this moment with someone. Luckily, despite it being eleven at night the previous day his time, he picked up.
I finished my tonkatsu as we were shooting that blessed breeze into a dreamscape of nothing. “Dude!” I said, “There’s so much food here! I’m going to get something else!” The glorious yakisoba last thing I ate before I simply couldn’t fit a single morsel of food in my stomach. Yakisoba contains fried soba noodles with spicy mayonnaise, powder herbs, and fish flakes. My friend hung up claiming he had to go to bed (but what about ME?!) and I was again left alone on the street eating noodles.
It is quite a predicament, being alone in heaven. It felt like being the sole survivor of a tsunami. The waves pounded everything I thought I needed or loved and washed it away into the ocean. I am left shocked that I made it to the paradise after the surge, laughing as I defeated that ever-looming doom of death. As I turn to hug the survivor next to me, I notice my loneliness. All of the joy I had in that moment was left in silent smiles to myself. I was in paradise. I was fulfilling my purpose. Again, that is to eat noodles on the street. Yet had no one to share Eden with.
Disclaimer: as I was talking about this moment with a friend of mine, she said “oh my gosh, I’m praying for the perfect girl for you to share your life with”. Are you serious? Is that what you thought? A girl? Like as in a girlfriend? What’s the matter with you? I just was thinking about how important friends are and the present quandary of enjoying paradise alone. Relax homie, I ain’t Romeo. I’m more like Han Solo, barreling through the galaxy in the Millennium Falcon with no Chewbacca. It was still awesome. It was, without question, one of my favorite days I’ve ever lived on this planet. I wouldn’t have traded it for the world. But who was going to shoot the TIE Fighters if the Empire were to strike back?
My moment in the park was one I will cherish forever. Eating extraordinary food, being adventurous, and dive headfirst into shock and awe is what makes life worth living. I walked a little more through Ueno Park and opened myself to any door that may present itself. What could be awaiting me past such a profound experience? What could be lurking just around the corner? Was it a squirtquake? Was it an ascension into bliss? What I found was a small Buddhist temple.
This small temple right past an undeniably ancient torii gate (review last post what those are) looked like an extension of the festival. There were a good number of people, vendors, and practitioners going into the temple to pray and give offerings. I had no idea what to do there but, then again, I had nothing else to do. After my savory five course meal I just put my gut through, I decided it was time to have something a little sweet. I found some donut looking things that smelled of cinnamon and dough. I took that as some sort of sign. I gladly pointed, paid, and walked around to the back of the temple with my treats.
I found a bench, almost entirely hidden from the crowds and the noise of the festival. It was next to a small pond that overlooked downtown Tokyo, which sprawled as far as the horizon reached. The pecking cranes carefully stepped as they searched for their meal. What little cherry blossoms were blooming were already being pushed by the wind to be trampled on by monks and monsters alike. As I sat and ate, I had a barrage of thoughts racing through my head. What were my feelings about being alone today? What was my favorite part? What did I learn about Japan? What did I learn about myself? What philosophy was somehow, someway manifest? How was my anxiety (another story for another time)? What’s going on with me? I withdrew my journal and began to write. This made up a lot of what you’re reading now, and a lot of what I simply will never show a soul. Travel tip #14692; bring a journal. You won’t remember everything, and pictures are lame. What do YOU think? Where are YOU? Why are YOU here? My soul is often filleted by the ballpoint. I believe the beginning of knowing yourself is by picking through the vomit of a journal entry.
I believe I have had enough. I became a glutton to solitude. I dearly missed my friends and travel companions. It was time. I swept the crumbs of my pastries off my jeans and made the trek back home, to be with my friends once again.
I asked, “what are y’all doing for dinner?”
“We have reservations for a sushi place, but let me see if we can get you in.”
I absolutely hated being a burden. “If it’s too much trouble don’t worry about it.” I replied.
“We’ll make room for you”. What a response. Being prepared a place at a table. To shift around the chairs, or even the little half chair thing where each of you has a cheek on it. It’s something special.
I spent the rest of my alone day doing something I thought I wouldn’t miss; being with friends. We laughed, ate, joked, talked, and partook in that grand cosmic wonder of nothingness. Nothing is beautiful and we all need a little more nothing in our lives.
The next day would be my last full 24 hours in Japan. We had one thing on the agenda. Shinjuku.