on it. I should feel a twinge of guilt, but I donât. It is late: he must be going home. And home couldnât be in the airport. I am feeling nasty and have no desire to sleep on an airport bench.
âGomen nasai! ââPardon meâI shout, but he ignores me.
After a few blocks, his strength fizzles and he paces himself, realizing that he canât get away from the lunatic screaming incomprehensible Japanese. I tell myself I can ignore him as well. Just shadow him. Sooner or later, heâs bound to lead me out of the airport. The rain runs down my face, misting my glasses as I gloat at my brilliance, my prey unwittingly guiding me out of the airport and meandering me through guarded checkpoints and a maze of construction-project detours.
In the second it takes me to swipe water from my glasses, he shifts into hyperdrive and runs a red light. I skid to a stop, the cross traffic separating us. I feel bad, good, guilty, tired-sick. That old guy is one slippery noodle. It is a daring escape, very gutsy and well timed. I explode with laughter, roaring my appreciation to the wet sky. A sharp sensation of being alive suffuses me, tickling, tingling. Iâm not miserable anymore. The rain comes down hard, soaking me, and through my foggy glasses I see him glancing back as he swings the corner. I wave farewell. A magnificent night. Everything forgivable.
I wander for half an hour and stumble on an empty lot next to a bamboo groveâthe perfect place to steal some pillow time. I am so relieved to get out of the airport that nothing bothers me. Within four hours of setting foot in Japan, I have already harassed a citizen and trespassed on private property, courting trouble with the law at every turn. I donât care. I could always plead ignorance.
The last time I was here, my family was passing through on our way to America. We changed planes and never left the airport. My mother had always dreamed of visiting Japan. I remember telling her that someday when I was bigger, rich, and famous in America, I would come back to tour Japan. Never in twenty years had I thought I would find myself in Japan camping in an empty lot like a hobo.
I pitch the tent under a large oak out of the downpour and in a
cloud of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. I strip to my underwear, crawl into my sleeping bag, and reward myself with a candy bar. As I close my eyes, a whining, screaming metallic thunder startles me into a cold sweat. I peep outside, a jumbo jet booms overhead. The lot is at the end of the airfield. Oh, gee. I wish I had pocketed a few mini-bottles of scotch on the plane.
At 2 a.m., I wake to bright lights and what feels like a small earthquake or a landing jumbo jet. An emergency runway? I bolt out of the tent and stop dead in my tracks. Bright-eyed monsters coming at me. Naked save for a pair of cotton briefs, I quiver in the flood of headlights from a battalion of tractors. They are coming for me. Gonna run me over. OH-SHIT! My tent! My bike! My passport! My pants! They growl forward. Coming. Metal screeching. They grind to a halt. A million incandescent watts pin me where I stand. I am camping on a parking lot for construction vehicles and earth-moving equipment. The drivers look at me. I look at them. They donât say a word. How very Japanese. Maybe they think I am Japanese. I grin, wave hello, then burrow into my tent. They cut the engines and the lights. I go back to sleep.
Morning brings a drizzle as fine as fish bones. In convenience-store parking lots, workers slurp instant noodles from Styrofoam bowls, fogging up their car windows, making small conspiracies of their meager privacy. Japanese are on their way to work, grim faces looking out windshields, truck drivers with white cotton gloves, office dwellers in dark suits. Villages are emptying. Children walk to school, quietly obedient in navy-blue uniforms. The populace ambles dispassionately toward duties, so little said in these early hours. People
âGomen nasai! ââPardon meâI shout, but he ignores me.
After a few blocks, his strength fizzles and he paces himself, realizing that he canât get away from the lunatic screaming incomprehensible Japanese. I tell myself I can ignore him as well. Just shadow him. Sooner or later, heâs bound to lead me out of the airport. The rain runs down my face, misting my glasses as I gloat at my brilliance, my prey unwittingly guiding me out of the airport and meandering me through guarded checkpoints and a maze of construction-project detours.
In the second it takes me to swipe water from my glasses, he shifts into hyperdrive and runs a red light. I skid to a stop, the cross traffic separating us. I feel bad, good, guilty, tired-sick. That old guy is one slippery noodle. It is a daring escape, very gutsy and well timed. I explode with laughter, roaring my appreciation to the wet sky. A sharp sensation of being alive suffuses me, tickling, tingling. Iâm not miserable anymore. The rain comes down hard, soaking me, and through my foggy glasses I see him glancing back as he swings the corner. I wave farewell. A magnificent night. Everything forgivable.
I wander for half an hour and stumble on an empty lot next to a bamboo groveâthe perfect place to steal some pillow time. I am so relieved to get out of the airport that nothing bothers me. Within four hours of setting foot in Japan, I have already harassed a citizen and trespassed on private property, courting trouble with the law at every turn. I donât care. I could always plead ignorance.
The last time I was here, my family was passing through on our way to America. We changed planes and never left the airport. My mother had always dreamed of visiting Japan. I remember telling her that someday when I was bigger, rich, and famous in America, I would come back to tour Japan. Never in twenty years had I thought I would find myself in Japan camping in an empty lot like a hobo.
I pitch the tent under a large oak out of the downpour and in a
cloud of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. I strip to my underwear, crawl into my sleeping bag, and reward myself with a candy bar. As I close my eyes, a whining, screaming metallic thunder startles me into a cold sweat. I peep outside, a jumbo jet booms overhead. The lot is at the end of the airfield. Oh, gee. I wish I had pocketed a few mini-bottles of scotch on the plane.
At 2 a.m., I wake to bright lights and what feels like a small earthquake or a landing jumbo jet. An emergency runway? I bolt out of the tent and stop dead in my tracks. Bright-eyed monsters coming at me. Naked save for a pair of cotton briefs, I quiver in the flood of headlights from a battalion of tractors. They are coming for me. Gonna run me over. OH-SHIT! My tent! My bike! My passport! My pants! They growl forward. Coming. Metal screeching. They grind to a halt. A million incandescent watts pin me where I stand. I am camping on a parking lot for construction vehicles and earth-moving equipment. The drivers look at me. I look at them. They donât say a word. How very Japanese. Maybe they think I am Japanese. I grin, wave hello, then burrow into my tent. They cut the engines and the lights. I go back to sleep.
Morning brings a drizzle as fine as fish bones. In convenience-store parking lots, workers slurp instant noodles from Styrofoam bowls, fogging up their car windows, making small conspiracies of their meager privacy. Japanese are on their way to work, grim faces looking out windshields, truck drivers with white cotton gloves, office dwellers in dark suits. Villages are emptying. Children walk to school, quietly obedient in navy-blue uniforms. The populace ambles dispassionately toward duties, so little said in these early hours. People
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