Aoyama reminds me so much of the West Village, my longtime neighborhood of choice in NYC.
I can roam the streets for hours.
The area is small, so the craziness of Omotesando is in my face before I know it. Or I stumble onto the loud noises from Aoyama Doori — a major street that for some reason, Lamborghini and Ferrari owners love. They drive up and down for no apparent reason, while revving their engines. Peculiar.
I wish Aoyama were bigger.
Then again, that is what makes Tokyo… Tokyo. I get whisked away by whimsical spurts then before I come down from the high, reality punches me in the face.
Revisiting to make sense of it all makes it worthwhile though. Because then, I discover layer upon layer of things I missed the first time.
So much depth. So Tokyo.
And the beginning of the Omotesando insanity.
"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