September 27th, 2003
Counting Japanese cars…
Living in another country is strange for a lot of reasons, especially if it is a country in a different hemisphere.
As I type on a Japanese keyboard (they are more different than you think, notice the lack of contractions in this post), I realize yet again it goes beyond yen and driving on the left side of the road. As my companion lies sleeping peacefully, snoring everso gently, I decide I need some starch to offset the voluminous amounts of alcohol I have already consumed in addition to the 70-proof spirits that wait warming in my class. So being the inventive chap I am, I go outside, leaving the door unlocked. Also being the traditionalist, I take the stairs instead of the elevator (which turns out to be a very good thing) because this apartment building takes security beyond front doors (and rightfully so). So I get to the bottom of the steps, and work with the self-closing door for half a minute before the simian in me realizes I can leave my right shoe to prop it open NOW, and then hop over to the discarded ironing board and exchange it for the oh-so-necessary shoe, which may be replaced on my foot before going to the convenience store.
So I get about 2.00$ worth of popcorn and chocolate-covered breadsticks, and return the apartment building 30 seconds away to eat and think about my conscious insobriety. Despite the fact there is a perfectly functional bathroom not more than 3 stories away, I decide to hang around outside and go through some light acrobatics to hoist myself onto a sub-garage roof and worm my way into the terranium of a nonexistent backyard behind the building to satisfy my craving. Base and boorish, yes, but well, maybe there are some evil vices left unsatisfied after leaving college.
After retrieving all of my effects and regaining entry into the abode of my charmingly snoring companion, I work my way out onto the standard clothes-drying balcony and consume my popcorn and Okinawan sake in solitude.
Hmm, how many of the double-deckered (via the aide of mechanical lifts) cars below are Japanese…one…two… After about twenty seconds of counting, I conclude with blinding clarity that in fact they are ALL Japanese model cars. Yes, my friends, he can be taught. The following twenty minutes are spent in thought that I do not have the patience to go into with this keyboard, but suffice it to say there are fragments of existence here where if I woke up in the middle of one, I could not honestly tell you if I was in the suburbs of just another big city in the US. Though I live alone and devoid of western humor, understanding, or family, Japan deserves full credit for the fact that at times I cannot deny the feeling that I am just another pensive individual in a silent, sprawling metropolis of capitalism. God bless you, Nippon, for taking pity on one who is not worthy of your splendor and kindness.
