“Can you recommend something?”
It can be such an intimidating question. But too tempting to resist in the circumstances. Music — the universal language. Playing. Listening. Searching it out. Digging in the crates. Chewing the fat.
I figured I might be in the right place. A projection on the wall read: The Independent Thinker’s Lounge. His English skills thankfully surpassed my non-existent Japanese ones. That was our way in. We spent an hour or two listening on the headphones, over the in-store speakers, on his MacBook. The tactility of flicking through the shelves. We googled with the Japanese keyboard. Regular humorous confused pauses searching for the right word, a clue to take it forward. Certain words and band names sent us all off on various tangents. It all came together in a small pile of treats on the counter; plus the extra CDs thrown in for our edification.
He called ahead to Club Quattro where some bands were about to play. “Some visitors from Australia are on the way down”. He drew us a map.
Later that evening we bumped into him again — pushing the bike, heading off with a couple of his friends. We walked with them for a bit through the back streets of Shibuya. They pointed us in the direction of some restaurants and wandered off. We ate well.
"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