The gingko festival started this past weekend for Icho Namiki-dori (Straight Row of Gingko Trees Avenue, if you like). In past years, the trees have been a riot of bright yellow with a carpet of fallen leaves to match. The street is closed to traffic and to walk through it is to walk through a tunnel of gold. Not to be too romantic - it’s also as crowded as a tunnel through Shinjuku station, everyone clumsy with cameras instead of smartphones. The straight-up shot, the casual peace-sign pose (now switch places!) in front of the trees, the composed down-the-row tripod shot. The arty don’t miss crouching to get the leaves on the ground, either mashed into a mustard paste or piled and lacy, depending on the weather. Buses belch out hordes of elderly leaf-peepers then idle around the corner in long rows. This past weekend, the people still came and they still set up their tripods. But the timing was off. It was jarring to see the trees green when they should have been yellow. It looked like defiance. They’ll go yellow eventually, but not today.
"I'm from Libya," he said. I don't know what to say. It's as if he'd told me he'd just come from his father's funeral.
The first specialty coffee shop in Ikebukuro and Junkudo (bookstore) resonate.
Editing is interpreting.
The Riddle of Steel.
The man stands motionless in a crush of white-shirted salarymen, as they swarm past him, toward the single escalator.
Rêve de centre commercial-piscine
Birthday walk home