My affair with Japan is like a good relationship: I care for the darn place so much that at times I hate it. I can't pretend the bad sides don't exist (that would be denial, very unhealthy), but after cooling down remember once again why I fought so hard for so long to return.
Outside the new Kabukiza, glowing in Ginza's neon twilight, I can just make out the sound of the
hyoshigi, the inimitable high-pitched wooden clappers, which never fail to make my ears prick up.
From my open window I watch a trademark Yokohama Pastel Sunset, and hear strains of far-off
Bon Odori music.
Walking home I smell curry,
unagi and
ramen, laced together with a faint hint of summer rain on the wind.
,
Funny how it is smallest things that reassure us that all is well.
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