The days of panettone are done

Earthonfoot 31

12 Jan 26

Tokyo

Time for onigiri

We arrived Wednesday morning after an uneventful flight on ITA Airways from Rome, during which we flew over Bulgaria, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan (avoiding flying over Ukraine), through China near Mongolia, South Korea, over the Sea of Japan to Haneda Airport, Tokyo. We wrestled our luggage through passport control, customs, onto the Tokyo Monorail, then the JY train line to our hotel. After a person-less check-in we landed here, our home for the next two weeks, a 15×15 room with kitchenette. Miraculously, the room fits all our stuff. In two weeks we move to a different Tokyo locale.

Now, Saturday 9am Tokyo time—7pm EST on Friday or, in Rome (as one of ours still is), it’s only eight hours earlier—1am.

Weather here: clear and cold. Glad I brought my bulky coat; I had debated it since generally Inleave behind anything so big when traveling, thus optimizing luggage space (with the exception of my running shoes and the Blundstone Chelsea boots I wear on the plane; for winter walking they are the best.)

An ambulance sounds outside the café where dk and I have stopped for drinks. I hear bells, sirens, announcements, even music regularly throughout the city—why, I usually don’t know. One of the many mysteries here.

Very incompetent in Japanese, I approach every moment in a kind of heightened beginner’s mind—one of the gifts of travel generally, in my opinion. I started Japanese on Duolingo, and on a podcast I listen to while running along the Sumida River, but I am still very much a novice.

Though I’ve been to Tokyo before, I am surprised. Rome this is not! But I adore both.

Meanwhile, back in our cafe all is tranquil. Shelves of neatly organized books, a platform of low tables where one sits cross-legged (if you’re a man, legs aside for a woman. Or, either gender may sit on heels—Hero position, in yoga), with shoes off so as to preserve the tatami mats. Ambient music plays from grey speakers. The walls, whitewashed, are covered minimally with framed landscape photographs of varying sizes, which put into relief the long, grey coffee bar lined with black stools. Behind the bar, a smiling barista wearing a wine red fur hat (the only real color in the place, I notice) animatedly chats with customers. Her laughter interrupts my focus regularly as I write, which I enjoy.

Over the next two weeks I look forward to more runs beneath the impressively tall Skytree, resting, dinners with friends and continued work on the novel, which takes place far, far away along Route 70 in the US. Baltimore native, filmmaker John Waters, also wrote a book set on the road, documenting his journey hitchhiking it, a tome I have yet to read.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18490657

(Random fact: I-70, a 2,150 mile highway running from Maryland to Colorado, was once termed Thunder Road during bootleg times.)

The tentative title of my book is… well, I’ll hold on that for now.

じゃあ、またね！