Uguisudani

"I grew up in the shitamachi - the undercity - of Tokyo. As a little girl, I used to run helter skelter
between the ramshackle two-storey and three-storey houses. For hours, I would sit and listen to
the calls of the Japanese bush warblers that inhabited the valley over the hill. This was my
world, and I loved it so. How could I not? It contained everything I needed.

"Tokyo was very different sixty years ago. The shitamachi was an enthralling place to grow up.
It was less inhibited by the rules of the Japanese military aristocracy, who resided in
neighbouring Yamanote, and I made friends with the local shoemaker, coppersmith, and shop
owners.

"Anyway, you wanted to hear about my father, not me. He came from the countryside, and he
moved to the city at the start of the Meiji period, just as Japan was starting to open its doors to
the rest of the world. He could smell opportunity, my father, but he was never pushy for himself.
Only those around him. Of course, I am looking at him now through the prism of age. But
everyone said he was the most selfless person they had ever met."

She pauses here for a moment. The mourners are getting ready to perform the chopstick ritual,
in which the bones of the deceased are delicately handled using chopsticks. People often ask
me "why chopsticks?" to which I offer up the explanation that the Japanese words for "bridge"
and "chopsticks" are the same. This never seems to satisfy them quite in the way I hope it
would.

"You are aware of my father's profession, of course?" she continues, her voice slightly heavier
with emotion now.
"Of course. He was a doctor."
She smiles.
"They called him sensei, certainly, but he was no doctor. Certainly, he had knowledge and spent
most of his life treating patients. But he barely had the qualifications to be considered a medical
assistant. He never told me why he didn't complete his medical training, though I asked him,
many times."
The line of mourners has started advancing on the bone cup now. I've never understood why
you would want to see your beloved quite like this. And God help you if you drop a bone due to
inadequate chopstick technique.

"There are a lot of mourners," I note.

"My father never refused help to anyone," she replies. "Never. Even if the person couldn't pay,
or if they had squabbled the previous week. He was kind beyond words. You must have met
people like that, surely?"
I couldn't say that I have.
"I remember one day, he was tending to an elderly gentleman with an abscess underneath his
jaw. I couldn't have been older than nine. As my father drained the abscess, some of the pus
squirted out, and I made a face.
"He said nothing at that moment. But as soon as the patient had been sent away, with strict
instructions to come back if the symptoms reemerged, he told me to sit down and listen very
carefully. 'If you ever make a face like that in my clinic again, you will never come to work with
me. These people are in pain. They do not need what you just did.' That's what he said."
"That doesn't sound like a very kind thing to say to a nine-year-old child."
"It wasn't very nice. But there is a difference between kind and nice. You should always try to be
nice. But never fail to be kind.
"From then on, I was careful never to show any pain or discomfort in the clinic, no matter what
happened."
"He must have treated so many people," I say, eyeing the other mourners.
"This is but the tiniest fraction of them," she replies. "But the most important ones were the
children. He could never bare to see a child in pain. I think he had a strong memories of what it
was like to be a child himself. Of course, children are never at home in a medical environment.
My father always did his best. The walls were covered with children's pictures."
"What did they draw pictures of?" I asked, shuffling into line behind an elderly woman with iron-
grey hair, who looked rather as though she would soon be the subject of the bone-chopstick
ritual herself.
"The stories."
I look at her, thinking I must have misheard.
"My father could never bare to see a child in pain. He told them beautiful stories to keep their
minds off it. Truly fantastic stories, so that they might take home something positive from
whatever ailment they were suffering. His favourite was the one about the kappas."
"The cappas?" I asked, sure I had misheard. "What are cappas?"
She chuckles quietly. "A story for later, perhaps. Come. I hope your chopstick skills are up to
scratch."

It is later, after the bone picking. Often, it is the crematorium staff who carry out a guided tour of
the bones, pointing out indicators of disease and the effect of the medication. There was no
need for them on this particular day - so many medical practitioners were in attendance that we
could do it ourselves.
We are told about the memorial ceremonies, the most important of which would be in forty-nine
and one hundred days. One by one, the mourners start to drift away. I nod my thanks to
Sayaka, and she asks the two elderly relatives she is talking to to wait.
"Thank you for coming," she says. "My father had little interest in Buddhism, but we have
requested two additional ceremonies before the one in forty-nine days. The next is in one week.
Will you come?"
"Of course," I say. "I must hear about the kappas."
She bows.

Seven days pass. I find myself asking my patients strange things. Do they know anything about
kappas? Have they ever seen one? Everyone can tell me something to some extent, although
sometimes not immediately because they have other names in different areas of Japan. The
stories they tell often bring smiles to their faces.
"The kappas!" one elderly man cackles. "I used to steal cucumbers from my neighbours'
gardens and blame it on them! Of course, they all knew it was me, really."
I had forgotten what it was like to see a smile on a patient's face.
Sunday rolls around again, and I put on my best suit for the memorial ceremony. Sayaka is
greeting guests as I arrive, but she hands these duties to her sister the moment she sees me.
"Thank you for coming," she says.
"It is my pleasure. How are you feeling?"
She nods down towards the cemetery just outside the temple.
"My father will love spending his eternal rest here. The Sumida river runs so close. On quiet
evenings, you can hear the rushing water."
"Do kappas live there?"
"Of course."
Sayaka smiles, misty-eyed with memories.
"My father told a story to every little boy and girl he ever treated. 'Have you heard about the
kappas?' he would say. 'You know they snatch unsuspecting children from the banks of the river
and drag them under the water if you're not careful?'"
"Sounds like a terrifying thing to teach children!"
"All children need cautionary tales," Sayaka says, firmly. "They teach them not only that the
monsters exist, but that you can defeat them, too. Do you know how to defeat a kappa?"
"No."
"Well, the kappas draw their strength from the bowls inside their heads. And they're obsessed
with politeness. All you have to do is bow… deeply - " she demonstrates, "and the water will run
right out of their heads. He taught this to all the children."
She smiles at the memory.
"The sickest children were the ones he spent the most time with. I think he became obsessed
with the idea of filling their lives with all the happiness they would not get to experience as
adults. He told them, if they ever tricked a kappa into bowing, they must take it back to the river
and fill up its bowl again."
"Sounds like madness."
"It makes the kappa strong again, true. But from then on, it will serve only you."
There is the tolling of a bell. The memorial service is about to begin.
"We had better going in," Sayaka says, pointing me towards the door of the temple. "My father
never liked to be kept waiting."

When he first moved to Tokyo from the countryside, he met a local umbrella and raincoat
merchant called Kihachi Kappaya. Kihachi-san was forever frustrated by the regular flooding in
Asakusa from the Sumida river. So, he created a system of channels
Where the Kappas Roam - notes

Sayaka was inspired by Ginko Ogino and Kusumoto Ine, who were among the first female
physicians in Japan licensed to practise Western medicine. Both faced similar uphill challenges
in a patriarchal environment, and I drew on their obvious strength and persistence for Sayaka's
personality. I also sought inspiration from other female doctors in countries where it was
unusual for women to practise medicine, including Edna Adan Ismail, whose fascinating
experiences are documented in her beautifully written (and sometimes harrowing)
autobiography A Woman of Firsts.

The development of medicine in Japan is fascinating, by the way, and any right-minded person
should be Googling the hell out of it RIGHT NOW and possibly looking for some books.

I know less about the Doctor (the narrator) than I do about Sayaka. I know that he is Dutch
because the Dutch played an enormous part in revolutionizing the Japanese medical profession
during the dawn of the Meiji era, when Japan was just reopening its doors to the world. He is
childless, and I think he lives alone. He found Japan fascinating upon arrival, but has since
become jaded. He wishes desperately to return to his home country, until he meets Sayaka.
Although I can't envisign them dancing off to get married after the story ends, I think she
probably remains a profound influence on his life. After all, they are in the same profession and
the same place, so they would continue to meet each other.
Shinjuku

August 2nd. Morning. Shinjuku Park Tower. The second largest building in Shinjuku. Home to
offices, shops, restaurants, and, most notably, the Park Hyatt Hotel. By day, the lobby is packed
with salarymen on their way to work. Not at 6am in the morning, though. There's only a sleepy
security guard, snoozing merrily up against the wall, enjoying the -
"Hey, you!"
Enjoying the quiet of the -
"YOU! Wake the fuck up, this is a disgrace."
QUIET of the morning before a day's hard wor -
"EXCUSE ME!"
Kenichi the security guard opens his eyes and blinks blearily, trying to take in the unfortunate
vision before him. Usually, he likes the easy start to the morning shift. Unfortunately, he is
currently being accosted by Fiona Atkya, who has just arrived in Tokyo on a 12-hour flight from
the UK. Her blonde beehive is sagging, her make-up is melting in the August heat, and her
features are arranged in a squint because she hasn't been able to put her contact lenses in yet.
"I'm looking for the Park Hyatt hotel."
Now, Kenichi doesn't understand English, but he hears the word 'hotel' and ushers the crazy
shouty lady to the stairs up to the second floor.
"Elevator…" he says, vaguely, as if this explains everything.
"It's not exactly easy to find, is it?" she snaps. "Some sort of signage might be a good idea, for
future reference."
Fiona's next unsuspecting victims are on the 29th floor (where she lets out a tremendous fart
that almost stifles the life of the woman who boarded the lift on floor three) and the 39th floor
(where she gets out of the lift, strides across the floor of the check-in lobby, and snarls at a
random receptionist).
"The room is booked under Fiona Atkya."
"OK. Thank you for booking - "
"It's a suite room."
"OK. Thank you for - "
"It's the Governor's Suite. It's for my client."
The receptionist, who has given up trying to interrupt her, merely bats eyelashes heavy with
mascara at her before looking up the booking on the computer. Her fingers fly across the
keyboard. This is Japan, and it doesn't matter how rude or polite you are to the hotel staff - they
still act with the height of efficiency.
"I see you booked our early check-in option, madam."
"That's right, I need to go in now and inspect it."
"Understood. May I just confirm Madam's name?"
"Atkya. You can spell that, can't you? A - T - K - Y - A."
"Yes, madam, but if you - "
"I mean if you need a mnemonic, you could use 'About To Kick Your Arse,' if you like."
"I'm sorry, I need to see your passport."
"Oh, for God's sake."
Fiona slams it onto the counter and rolls her eyes. Her suit, tailored and lovely though it is, is
itching in very uncomfortable places due to the sweat. Her own hotel, where she has sent her
luggage, is located two streets away. And in Japan, two streets can be an extremely long way.
She desperately needs a shower.
"It seems like it is all in order, madam." The receptionist smiles, stands, bows, and hands back
the passport.
"Thank you," she says, despite herself. "Take me up to the room, please. My client is on his
way."
"As madam wishes. And, your client, what time is he - "

Nate Indigo, former one-quarter of the boy band Voice of Love, is sat in a taxi. It's a black one -
posh, certainly, but it doesn't have wifi. His fingers caress the smartphone in his pocket, but he
already knows it's useless. He'd tried to access the wifi at the airport, but it had been too risky.
Fiona had left him in the company of a bodyguard before rushing off to check the hotel. He just
has to wait.
There's a small pile of press she gave him to peruse - coverage on the upcoming release of his
first solo album. He picks up a magazine. Flicks through. Throws it back without reading
anything. The pictures look good.
The driver says something in Japanese. They've reached the entrance of the hotel. Nate slides
out of the taxi, striding ahead of the bodyguard, fingering the phone.
No point trying in the atrium - won't be enough time to connect. And there's never Wifi in lifts.
Maybe the hotel lobby is the best bet…
The doors open at the 39th floor. Nate's phone is already in his hand; he hits the Wifi button,
opens the security page, and accepts the terms and conditions -
"Nate!"
Fucks sake.
The phone disappears back into his pocket.
"Fiona!"
They bump cheeks, awkwardly.
"How was the flight? I hope they treated you properly."
"It was great. How was Hamberg?"
"Cold and drizzling! But still, better than this heat. Why does it feel like I am swimming through
the air? The driver told me it's 100% humidity today. Does that mean we are about to drown?"
There is a buzzing in Nate's jeans and he feels a sudden thrill to his chest, but he can't check
now. For all her apparent jovialness, Fiona - with her piercing gaze and slight German accent -
still intimidates him, even though he has known her for five years now.
"Let me take you up to your room," she says, taking his arm and steering him towards another
elevator. "I have secured the best room in the hotel for you…"

The Governor's Suite is all soft blues and creams, lit by an odd mishmash of lamps, even on a
sunny day.
Low lighting at high prices, Nate thinks, as Fiona glides about the place with the air of a duchess
at a swan hunt.
"Shoes off, shoes off… so, this is the foyer, which is a good size, and you have a grand piano
over there so you can compose if the mood takes you, two telephones if you want to separate
work and personal calls - there is of course a 24-hour room service should you need anything -
and come through here - come on come on - this is the walk-in wardrobe, which for some
reason offers the biggest window in the place, but I suppose you can always drag a chair in if
you want to admire the view, now back out here is the minibar… the bedroom is through here…
two separate beds, since we don't want you getting too many ideas - look at the wooden
panelling! - and the bathroom, aaaaah, this is what they were gabbling about on the phone - this
room contains the hotel's only Japanese cypress bathtub."
She spins around to face him, beaming.
"It's very…"
"Don't thank me," she says, striding past him with the air of a general on their way to the
battleground. "See you in the lobby in one hour for the press conference. I'll be in the adjoining
room through here. Call me if you need anything. Don't need anything, please. I need a
shower."
Nate sighs in relief as she leaves, and dashes to the toilet to christen it - always a necessity in
any new hotel room.
Once sat down, he finally takes out his phone. There are messages and emails from various
apps, all of which excite him enormously. But there's one in particular that he is after, and after
scrolling through Facebook Messenger, he finds it.

FROM: Tomo
Sure! I'll be around evening on the 3rd! I found a private(ish) bar in Shinjuku. Here's the
address. Hope you have portable wifi in Japan cuz you'll never find it without ,haha! Try not to
get lost in Shinjuku station! :p

Suddenly, Nate feels alive again. He pulls up his trousers, flushes the toilet, and skips into the
bedroom.

The Japanese journalist gesticulates furiously while speaking faster than a bullet train for what
seems like an age. Eventually, Fiona leans in, her eyebrows doing a sort of furious quickstep.
"Mmhm. Mhmhm. Mmhm. Not sure we're understanding here," she says, and the journalist
grinds to a halt. "We told you we could only conduct your interview in simple - understand? -
SIMPLE Japanese. Or English."
"Sorry? Problem?" the journalist stutters, looking at his delegation of clueless companions while
pulling at his own rubbery face out of nervousness.
"Slowly, please," Fiona says, somehow making 'please' sound like a command from an
Assiriyan commander at the head of a two thousand-strong army.
"Ah. Osoi, ne." The journalist resumes, and so does Nate's concentration. He catches words like
'Nihon' (Japan), 'nani wo' (what), and 'maniaku' (fanatic), makes an assumption of what the
question must be, and then digs into his mind for a suitable response.
The interview is only half an hour, but it seems to last for a decade. Finally, the journalist gets
up. His companions imitate him, and commence the long Japanese ritual of saying goodbye.
Nate stands to bow too, but Fiona doesn't budge an inch. She hasn't had a cigarette for almost
45 minutes.
"Arigatou gozaimasu!" the journalists crow. "Ostukaresame desu!" Suddenly, it's like a
competition - who can say it last before they get out of the door. And they're bowing lower. Nate
tries to copy them, but the lower he goes, the lower they go, until he wants to ask them if they
are indeed taking the piss.
With a final bow, the journalists leave. Nate straightens up, happy that it's over. He's feeling
rather proud at having conducted an entire interview in Japanese.
"That wasn't bad, was it!" he grins, striding over to fidgety Fiona.
"We won't know until they publish," she says, grimly, wrenching her lighter out of her bag like
some kind of weapon. "It's ten o'clock now. The rest of the day is your own. But don't do
anything ridiculous, please, or I'll chop your balls off."
Nate positively skips out of the miserable interview room and into the nearest lift. Tomo is
waiting for him somewhere, and he is already -
"Excuse me!"
He looks up. The man he is sharing the lift with is smiling at him.
"So, where did you learn to speak Japanese?" the man asks, as though continuing a
conversation they had just been having.
"Oh!" Nate says, reality dawning on him. "You were in there?"
"Yes. I am the official translator for the magazine."
"Really?" says Nate, completely off guard. "I thought they couldn't get anyone?"
"No, they could. But we all thought you did a magnificent job."
"I think you'd have done a better one. Why didn't you say anything?"
"Well…" the man leans in, conspiratorially. "We didn't want to spoil it."

"What did we say the collective noun for ex-boyfriends was?"

"A murder. As in, a murder of crows."
"That's what I want to do to - "
"That guy over there is scraping his ass again."
"That's like the fifth time in ten minutes, he should drop by the clinic or something."
"God. Reckon it's contagious?"
"Probably. Just get it seen to, man. I mean, it doesn't take long to sort out most things."
"Bit tough for some people to admit -."
"Talking of which, another drink?"
"Not from this barman, let's shimmy round there. His drinks are stronger."
"Tomo? There's only five minutes left of happy hour."
"Not for me. I've got a date…"
Shinjuku - Urisen story

The streets surrounding Shinjuku Station are never quiet, even at five o'clock in the morning.
The pachinkos, izakaya, and karaoke booths lining the Meiji-dori road blare a combination of
sounds that blend into a wall that could almost be considered solid.

Staggering up this road is Nate Richards, who is happily trying to remember every detail of the
past five hours through the pink fuzz of seven beers and three tequila shots. Let's relive it with
him.

Nate remembers bumbling through the Nichome district of Shinjuku, trying to follow his friend
Tomo's haphazard directions from his mobile phone. Turn right at the bar with the big Torii gate
outside. The problem with this particular direction is that Nate doesn't know what a Torii gate is.
I'll meet you at the Lawson on the right side of the street. Nate looks around. There is a
multitude of text adorning the signs of bars, restaurants, and even pornographic shops. Nothing
he can see says Lawson. And the people… it is not entirely accurate to say they're
indescribable. The problem is knowing where to start.
Up ahead, the pavement is blocked by a gaggle of drinkers spilling out of the nearby bar. Trying
to navigate round it, Nate at last spots the blue sign with white writing: LAWSON. His heart
skips.
Bone picking

How high must the temperature be to properly cremate a body? The answer, apparently, is
between 1,400 and 1,800. To anyone novice crematorium workers hastily using Google to work
out which setting to use on the big oven, you're very welcome. I'd be insulted if you tried to pay
me for this information. By which I mean, please send your insults to my address in Shin-Okubo,
Tokyo.

I mention this because if you burn a body at too high a temperature, it curls up like a fish on a
barbecue, which is distressing for grieving people. Also, the bones crumble, which is very
important if you happen to live in, say, JAPAN! because of one important ceremony: kotsuage,
or bone picking.

At Japanese funerals, it is customary to pick up the bones of the deceased after cremation. This
cautious exercise is carried out using a pair of mismatched chopsticks, and the bones are often
passed from one person's chopsticks to another. Why is this interesting? Because neither of
these things ever happen in polite company at any other time in Japan. That's right. Funerals
only. So all those couples who think they're being all smoochy and romantic by sharing food
between chopsticks, you'd better stop immediately. At least in restaurants.

Why does it happen? Ask someone on the street why it happens and they will probably tell you
they have no idea, and could you please leave them to go about their working day. Stop being
an over-familiar freak, you weirdo. This is because most people are boring and uncurious. Ask a
priest at a temple, though, and they might give you any number of answers. Japan might be
consistent in its religious traditions, but it has not exactly done well at holding onto the reasons
behind half of these traditions. This applies to modern day life, too. A frequent conversation I
have with colleagues usually runs along the lines of, "We can't do that because of this rule. We
have held onto this rule for 20 years. We can't tell you why… because we don't know. Also, yes,
it is a stupid, nonsensical rule. But we still apply this rule even after 20 years, so there must be a
good reason."

I am, of course, exaggerating for comic effect. Although not by much.

The truth is that there are loads of reasons why kotsuage is carried out, and they vary
enormously depending on where you happen to be in Japan. However, some common points
persist across the ceremony no matter where it occurs. For example, the bones are placed in an
urn after they have been handled. It is customary to put the feet bones in first because then the
deceased is the right side up. Children (yes, children, here are the bones of your late uncle,
have a good look) are often encouraged to handle the skull bones because these may bestow
extra intelligence. Funeral staff members carry out a sort of guided tour, showing the mourners
the damage caused by the disease and the effects of the medicine. The last bone to go into the
urn is the Adam's apple because it is shaped like Buddha.
Now, I may have come across a bit sarcastic and mocking in the previous paragraph. Not my
intention, I assure you. Part of me wonders if all this is somehow… healthier than the Western
style funeral. Yes, even the bone picking. Showing children that human beings break down at
the end is a very positive thing to do. It gives us, for want of a better phrase, something to aim
for. It is somehow appealing that, no matter how rich or poor we may become, no matter what
we choose to make of our lives, and no matter what paths we take along the way, we all end up
as a pile of bones in an urn.

Random factlets

While the flames consume the deceased, the mourners enjoy a large meal. Chopsticks are
traditionally stuck upright into bowls of rice - again, not something that should be done in polite
company at any other time in Japan.

A little theory - could the fact that the Japanese words for bridge and chopsticks are the same
be the reason behind so many chopstick traditions at funerals? Going out on a limb here, I
know, but a lot of Buddhism is all about moving on to a greater journey after death. Cremation
itself is said to free the soul of the body.

The soul is said to be truly free of the Earth by the 49th day after cremation. Families used to
hold memorial rituals on the 7th, 14th, 21st, 28th, 35th, and 42nd days after the funeral, too,
although this practise is steadily dying out because it is ridiculously expensive.

It is common for mourners in Japan to bring money to funerals. Friends and colleagues bring
between 3,000 and 20,000 yen. Close family members are expected to donate significantly
more. I personally believe that I might be the richest I've ever been in my life at my funeral.

There is a drive-thru funeral service in Nagano where the bereaved can drop off their donation
money and leave a note to the family without even getting out of the car. This is the dumbest
thing I have ever heard of. I mean, for pity's sake… why even bother?

Finally, the weird bug-eyed Pepper robot by Softbank can be programmed to carry out funeral
rites. I am disinclined to like these things because there are about a hundred of them in one of
the offices I teach at, and the sight of them looking at me accusingly when I step out of the lift at
8:50am is disconcerting. They all know exactly how hungover I am. However, they are also
cheaper than hiring a priest, so… swings and roundabouts. Talk to it after the ceremony and it'll
try and sell you a Softbank phone. Do not accept.
Shinjuku - Urisen story

I once described Shinjuku as 'frenetic' to a work colleague and they said, "That is the perfect
word for that place!" But I'm not even sure 'frenetic' is strong enough. Shinjuku is such a multi-
faceted beast. I could have chosen any angle on it and still come out with a fascinating story. In
fact, I had to cut swathes of the first draft because I felt I was trying to explore too much. Even
when I had a final draft, I wasn't happy with the length. It's twice as long as the first story in this
series.

The Park Hyatt hotel is, of course, famous for being a principal location in the film Lost in
Translations. I haven't seen the film because my attention span is like - oh, look at those
curtains - but I have visited the famous bar. Unfortunately, I don't have anywhere near enough
cash to rent the Governor's Suite, but the hotel website offers a fabulous introduction complete
with pictures and a video. Take a look at this:

"This one of a kind suite welcomes guests with an oversized foyer into an elegant retreat
boasting 140m2 of interior space. A bedroom complete with plush sofas and a master
walk-in closet offers unobstructed views over the Kanto Plains and and the dazzling city lights.
The Japanese cypress tub in the grand bathroom, the only one offered in the hotel,
is a favorite for our international guests."

https://suiteroom.parkhyatttokyo.com/en/governors_suite/index.html#PHOTOS

It's a copy editor's dream, and you can see I had a bit of fun with it when Fiona frantically drags
Nate around the place. I particularly love how 'oversized foyer' is presumably meant to sound
like a good thing. And how many international guests call to reserve their favourite bath?!

The translator scene genuinely happened to me. I was working at an elementary school in north
Tokyo during my first year in Japan when the school principal (who was a nice man)
approached me and asked if it was true I could speak Spanish (I was conversational at the time,
having just spent a year in Barcelona). He asked if I could greet a Spanish footballer, who was
coming to the school to do a motivational speech for the children, and I said 'sure, why not? I
am barely comfortable in Spanish and can say practically nothing in Japanese. I'm sure it will be
fine". Anyhoo, we sat in the principal's office for almost half an hour while I muddled through in
the two languages. The footballer could only speak Spanish, and the Japanese delegation he
had brought with him appeared pretty monolingual, so I did wonder what the Hell was going on
here. As we did the over-polite goodbyes at the end of the meeting, one of the Japanese chaps
offered me a business card and asked me how long it had taken me to become conversational
in Spanish. I told him it had taken a year.
"I'm the translator for the Kita Board of Education," he grinned. "You did a very good job!"
I looked at him in surprise. "Well, I think you might have done a slightly better job," I said.
"Well, we were all so impressed. We didn't want to spoil it."
I went with the urisen angle on the story because the seedier side of life is always interesting. I
could accurately describe Nichome because I have practically lived there for four years, and I've
also visited a number of gay host clubs in the area. I have mixed opinions about them - there
are terrible stories and most urisen rarely work at them for long, but I've also heard some urisen
speak about them very positively. It's not an argument I wanted to debate at length in this story,
but I'd love to revisit it in the future.

The behaviour of hosts also fascinates me. I've dated two (by which I mean, out of work…), and
they both exhibited very similar mannerisms and habits designed to emotionally trigger people. I
wonder if this is the result of training or simply a trait shared by those who are successful at the
job?

Shuhei's story was the most difficult to tell because of the grief he has experienced. Grief is a
particularly valuable emotion and among the most difficult to portray. Parts of his backstory were
inspired by real life. It is 100% true that a great number of vulnerable, young men moved down
to Tokyo after the Tohoku earthquake, and some of them were swept up into the urisen world.
How could they not be? Someone was promising them an extremely well-paying job for just a
few hours per day, with a living space shared by people of their own age thrown in for free.

Urm, what else? There really is a telephone of the wind in Otsuchi, and watching documentaries
about it gave me an idea of how much Japan suffered when the 2011 tsunami hit. I am not
ashamed to say this particular piece of research made me cry buckets and buckets. The people
who visit that phone box are braver than I could ever be.

Fiona was an element that I couldn't quite fit in properly (I'm still not happy with how she
develops). She was originally much more fleshed out and likable, but I cut swathes and swathes
of her material to make way for the Shuhei-Nate-Tomo love triangle. I would have cut her
entirely or saved her for another story, but I needed a reason for Nate to be reluctant about
coming out. So she stayed.

Oh, and in case anyone is still wondering, Tomo is definitely the Tomoki mentioned in the
previous story, but a few years on. It didn't start out that way. Honest. But I was writing both
stories in parallel for a while, and I think my brain subconsciously decided the two characters
were one and the same. It was only after I was flicking through my notes for How Very Kind Of
You To Come And See Me! that I realized what had happened.

Well, that's enough blathering from me. Go and read the story if you haven't already.

"People say, 'Has it already been five years?' But that's because they didn't live through it. For
us, we say, 'Has it only been five years?'"
"I called my old home line. The house is gone. But I still have the number in my head, so I
dialled it."
The best boyfriend I ever had was from the countryside. He believed all our relationship
required was for him to take the bullet train from Osaka to Tokyo every weekend, have sex
exactly once - him driving his semi as deep into my arse as possible to stop it popping out
pathetically like a dead fish - and then spend the entire day sleeping and the entire night in
various clubs talking to men he considered better-looking than me.
Wait, sorry, did I say the best boyfriend? I meant best looking. Which is the same thing, in some
people's eyes.

This is an improvement, but it's still too late. He is already a wanker in my eyes.

20 Minutes and Perfect Posture

The streets surrounding Shinjuku Station are never quiet, even at five o'clock in the morning.
The pachinkos, izakaya, and karaoke booths lining Meiji-dori blare a combination of sounds that
blend into a wall that could almost be considered solid.

Staggering up this road is Nate Richards, who is happily composing an inner monologue
through the pink fuzz of seven beers and three tequila shots. Seven, in this situation, meaning
thirteen. And three meaning five. Let's listen in on what he's thinking, shall we? Because this is
a story, so we can do that.

Nichome isn't a place.

Well, all right, it isn't just a place.
Nichome is a… is a… a concept, all right?
It's not a place. It's a… place.
But if you go there in the day, it's just like a… random collection of streets.
I think Nichome comes into this world somewhere between 6pm and 8pm, just as the all-you-
can-drink happy hours at Dragon and Aiiro are getting underway.
Fuck, that guy is cute. Can I take him home?
Christ. What a mess. Let's see how he got into this state, shall we? Why don't I take us back
around five hours?

"Irashaimasse!" is the first thing I hear as I push the door of the bar open. Not just any
irasshaimasse! though. This has been emitted by a fivesome of young men with impeccable
hair. It therefore warrants extra attention.
This bar is dark and cramped, not unlike many of its patrons. Some of them would not look out
of place in a Star Wars movie. That scene where Luke Skywalker pisses off a drunk alien and
then Obi-wan has to slice off somebody's arm.
I wind between the mishmash of furniture - all of which has been placed far too close together in
little circles to create some semblance of intimacy - to reach my friend, Tomo.
"Darling!" he shouts, leaping up with his usual enthusiasm and kissing me on the cheek. "How
are you!?"
"What the fuck is this place?"
"Yeah, not bad! Not bad!"
He gestures flamboyantly around the room and waves frantically at the manager, who is already
oiling his way across the floor in our direction.
"I said, what the fuck is this place?"
"This place? Oh! It's an urisen bar!"
"What are we doing here?"
"An urisen bar! A host ku-lub." He pronounces the word with relish, deliberately separating the
two syllables and then sending them off with a lip-smack. I have a lot of fun in my life, but I
would kill to have even a modicum of Tomo's sense of style.
"Not much dancing for a club."
"Of course not, darling!" he cackles, spinning around and throwing himself back onto the leather
sofa. "This is my friend Tsubasa-kun! We've been having a chat."
I hadn't even noticed the hunky guy sprawled in the chintz chair next to Tomo. He looks up at
me with dark eyes and gives a bored-looking nod.
"Nice to meet you!" I smile. "How do you know -"
"Dah-ling!" James ejaculates. "Darling DAH. LING! It's your turn!"
I look where he is gesturing and find that the barman has successfully navigated the furniture
obstacle course and is now hovering somewhere around my elbow in a low bow.
"What are you ordering, darling!" Tomo grins, wickedly.
"I'll have a beer. Nama-biru kudasai," I say, to Tomo's utter glee.
"No no no!" he shouts, gleefully. "You have to order a boy first!"
Oh Christ. A memory - previously suppressed by alcohol and the shame of various disgraceful
antics - stirs half-heartedly from its slumber.
"This is one of those places you were telling me about the other night?"
"Yaaaaaaas!" Tomo grins like an old hag in a children's pantomime. "You said you wanted to
come!"
"I'm always saying stuff like that! I never expect it to actually happen!"
The manager is getting quite agitated over the exchange. It probably sounds quite angry to him,
but Tomo and I have been friends for years. We shout. We're boisterous. We take the piss. But
always with a smile. He is the best friend I have here, and I think part of this is down to the fact
that we've never had sex.
"He says you have to order one now."
"A boy?"
"Of course."
"Can't I look at them for a bit first? Or… I don't know. Maybe ask them some questions? Stop
laughing, Tomo!"
"This isn't Blind Date, honey! Just pick the guy you think is hottest!"
"But what if we don't have any chemistry?"
"Then pick another!"
Something heavy lands on the table. I look down. The manager has thrown a book at me.
"Boys no meniyuuu," he says, opening it and rifling through the laminated pages.
"He says it's a menu of guys."
"Gosh, really?" I say, sarcastically. "I was wondering why it was full of pictures of beautiful men."
"He says most of them are available tonight," Tomo says, after a frantic Japanese exchange. "If
not, he can recommend someone similar."
"Don't worry. I already know who I'm going for." I pivot for dramatic effect and point. "The middle
one. In the black shirt."
"Oh!" Tomo's eyebrows rocket up into his head. "Good choice! Sumimasen!"
I finally feel like I am able to sit down next to Tomo. The sofa is low to the ground, so I feel like I
am almost crouching on the floor. And it offers a perfect view of the guy I have chosen. He is
broader across the shoulders than I would normally go for, but he is cute and has perfect
posture. His spine is as straight as a beanpole. And unlike the other four - who have all melted
into their smartphones or are staring blankly into space - he is still staring at me. Has been since
I walked in. I know because there is a mirror behind Tomo, and I'm not quite as stupid as I like
to pretend. This is the one.
There is some additional Japanese exchange between the manager and Tomo, which the
manager insists Tomo translates for me. A table charge of 2,000 yen is confirmed, just for sitting
down. After that, the price is 750 yen for every fifteen minutes, and we haven't even got to the
drinks (1,000 yen for a 300ml bottle of beer - complete extortion on its own, but it also turns out I
have to share it with the guy).
"We are not spending long in here," I say to Tomo, who is grinning like a man possessed.
"Let's see what happens, dah-ling!" is all he says, as my guy drops smoothly onto the sofa next
to me. "Go on! Talk to him!"
I feel the combination of English teacher and lifelong show-off in me rise to the challenge,
drowning out the side of my head that is screaming, This is the weirdest thing ever, what the
fuck is happening?! I straighten my back and rest my elbows on the back of the sofa, hoping this
makes me look confident. My best smile is already in place.
The guy is just sitting there silently. It's not a nervous silence. He simply looks as though he is
waiting for me to speak.
"Hello!" I say. "What's your name?"
"Oh! My name is Shuhei!" he says. His smile looks a lot more convincing than mine feels. I feel
like I have stuck a pair of enormous bananas in my cheeks. But he looks a bit panicked too.
"Eh, nihongo oh hanasenai?"
"I don't speak Japanese." A lie, but not far from the truth. My Japanese is pretty awful, but I've
been finding lately that people in Japan seem friendlier if I am not mutilating their language in
front of them.
"Eigo ganbare, ne," the manager chuckles at Shuhei.
Ganbaru… nothing in Japan makes me more annoyed than this verb. Nothing. Sure, it seems
innocent enough. Do your best. Like you say to a five-year-old at their first sports day. "It doesn't
matter if you don't win. Just do your best." Five years in Japan has taught me that ganbare can -
and often does - mean, "You will do your best for the good of this business/school/etc., even if it
is detrimental to your health. Or so help me, I will make it my singular aim in life to make you
wish you had never been born." Foreigners have no concept of ganbaru. Ganbaru means
staying at work until 9pm at night, even when there is nothing to do, just because your stupid
boss doesn't want to go home and face the wrath of his terrible wife. Ganbaru is drinking cheap
beer with your workmates until you pass out, even if you are allergic to alcohol. Ganbaru is -
"What is your name?"
Shuhei's junior high school level English cuts through my inner monologue.
"My name is Muttley," I say, perkily.
"Ma-turi?"
"Close enough. It's a nickname."
Shuhei's little smile lights up the room.
"Nice to meet you, Muttley!" He even holds out his hand and everything.
We talk. His English is terrible, but we carve out a conversation about pedestrian things. I try to
parry his questions with ones about him, but he tends to deflect them back around. Gently. You
wouldn't know he was doing it unless you were in a similar profession.
Next to me, Tomo is chatting away to his man in fluent Japanese, who is gradually looking more
and more bored. This makes Shuhei appear even better by comparison. He cannot take his
eyes off me.
"What are your hobbies, Mattori-san?"
"Eating cheese."
He cracks up. It's as if I am the most hilarious person on the planet.
About twenty minutes later, he pours me a drink from my own 330ml bottle of beer and puts a
hand on my knee. I am hooked from that moment.
Twenty minutes. That's all it takes. Twenty minutes and perfect posture.

My bank account gets off lightly this time - I only spend 6,000 yen. Tomo, on the other hand -
trying to impress the bored man he was spending 3,000 yen an hour to talk to - splashed out on
a bottle of Champagne for the table and tequila shots for everyone. And he didn't appear to be
ready to stop.
"Why does your guy appear to be leaving the club with us?" I ask Tomo.
"Because I've paid 10,000 yen for him to come dancing with us for an hour," he replies. "Where
is your guy?"
I look back towards the entrance of the club. Shuhei has ambled down the stairs, ready to see
us off. He is still bowing.
"He isn't mine," I say. But this is a lie. This man was clearly made for me.

As we all know, there are three types of men in the world. Category one is strictly sex only, and
just the one time. Most men fall into this category. At the other end of the scale, we have
category three - the men we want to take out, marry, and die with. These are the most
dangerous type of men, and they should be avoided at all costs because they inevitably break
your heart. Category two lies somewhere in the middle of this: men you happily bone on a
regular basis, but you are both so aware of each other's faults that it never develops into a
relationship.
And that's it. All other objects in the universe are either a) women or b) rocks.
The guy whose cock I am sucking right now falls squarely into Category One. I haven't even
taken my shirt off, while he is totally naked. That's how selfish he is. If I am less naked than you
at any point during the foreplay experience, you are getting it wrong. Take my clothes off.
Unwrap me. Slowly. Like the beautiful present I obviously am to you, you ungrateful fuck. Why
do I still have my socks on, for Christ's sake?
Eventually, he gets around to pulling down my underwear to expose my glorious erection, takes
a deep breath, and… bursts into tears.
This is an unusual reaction, so I go with, "What the fuck?"
"Your penis," he chokes, sobbing helplessly.
"What about it?" I ask, slightly panicked. He is properly crying - the kind of tears you cry as a
child when Mum comes in, sits you down, and explains to you that Mr. Mimples the cat has
gone off to the big litterbox in the sky after a run-in with a Toyota Yaris.
"It's so big," the guy sobs. "I really want it."
"All right," I reply, slightly nonplussed. "Well… you can have it. Here it is. Um. Do what you like
with it."
He shakes his head and gulps, searching his limited vocabulary for the correct words
"I mean, I want your penis… on my body. I wish I had your penis."
I feel the horniness starting to drain out of my body. Crying men do nothing for me.
"But you have a lovely penis."
He gulps.
"Really?"
"Yeah!" I put my arms around him in a somewhat pathetic attempt at providing comfort. "It's a
great… shape."
There's no way penetration is happening now. Instead, we give each other equally pathetic
handjobs until the bed sheets are stained with the semen of sadness, and he goes on his merry
way.

"When I said I wanted bodily fluids, I meant sperm. Not tears."

The table explodes in laughter. I have just recounted the entire tale for my friends, and they
seem to find it hilarious. This takes the sting out of the event for me. At least I have a mildly
interesting story.
This bar is lively. Dragon Men flirts with the idea of becoming interesting during its two-hour all-
you-can-drink happy hour, but it doesn't truly take off until several hours later when everyone
remembers it's the best place to find sex without risking a nasty disease. We are now in this
golden period. The men are coming in. The place is filling up.

This bar is about the size of a walk-in wardrobe. I'm serious. I have been in toilets with more
space. The colour scheme is sombre, but it still manages to maintain an air of shabby cosiness
thanks to the assortment of nick-nacks on the walls and tables. Seven Japanese men are
crowded around the bar. I am banking on none of them speaking English as I spit out the words:
"Why do all Japanese men cheat?"
Tomo stares at me drunkenly through his glass of beer.
"I'm serious," I say, for some reason 100% certain that I want to embark on this road of self-
destruction. "I mean, all men cheat. That's obvious. But Japanese men cheat more. They just
can't stop themselves"
I am aware that every word I am spitting is poisonous and stupid and foul to the core. I can't
stop, though.
"It's like it's ingrained in the culture or something."
"Are we still talking about your ex here?" Tomo groans. "Or are we now onto the rent boy you
think you're dating?"
I stop ranting briefly to take a sip of beer. This isn't where I want the conversation to go.
Tomo smiles slyly. "Do you REALIZE it's his JOB to go on dates with RANDOM MEN and
SLEEP with them?"
"I do not think I'm dating him. Shut up!"
"Yaaas you do, dah-ling. You'ftt… you'mve… you have BEEN THERE three times this week. I
worried about you."
"Your English is terrible when you're drunk, Tomo, go home."
"Better than my Japanese sucking all of the time, efen after five years."
It's testimony to our friendship that I let it slide. Not many people other than Tomo would be able
to say something like that without causing me to sulk.
"DAH-ling. I know how you FEEL," Tomo hiccups, putting his hands on the bar and resting his
head on them. "But the POINT is… the POINT IS that… they are MEANT to make you FEEL
like THAT. It's a dream. A fantasy. They WANT you to keep coming BACK, and they WANT you
to KEEP SPENding the money. They are TRAINED to DO THAT."
I actually love the way Tomo speaks when he is drunk. Not quite shouting every other word, but
putting so much stress onto certain syllables that it sounds ridiculous.
"Trained?" I say.
"They are GOOD at preTENDing to LOVE you."
I know he is right. Fuck, he is absolutely right. Am I going insane? But I thought... I don't know
what I thought.
"I need to do more karaoke," I say. "Pass me the console."
"Urrgghg… what are you singing?"
"Adele. Rolling in the Deep."
Tomo eyes me suspiciously as he passes the karaoke machine.
"Why don't you just pay to fuck him?"
I take the little plastic pen and navigate to the English songs.
"It's not the same."

The man sitting opposite me works for a company that makes printers. He doesn't like silence, I
notice. As I wait for him to finish setting up the CD player, he makes little noises. Clicks his
tongue. Sucks his teeth. Even says something that sounds like 'boop-bitty-boop' as he presses
the 'PLAY' button. It's almost like he used to be a printer himself and has now been reincarnated
into a man, trapped in an eternal hell working in a printer factory. Do printers have souls? Do
they have religion?
I feel my phone pulse. I'm not in the habit of checking it during lessons, but he is taking so damn
long to carry out this simple task that I take it out. Shuhei Yamada.
My heart convulses.
"Look," I say desperately. We've been at this for an hour already, and I figure it's about time for
a break. "Take ten minutes. Give your brain a rest."
I hurry out to the corridor as fast as I can without appearing to be rude and punch down on the
notification. Which fails to have the desired effect - the message is unreadable.
Damn. No signal in this bloody building.
I hurry down to the smoking room, which defies all logic because it gets reception even though
it's in the bloody basement.
Hello, Mattori! I do not have work tonight. Please come to Shinjuku Station at 9pm. I want to see
you.
Tricky. Very tricky. Meeting anyone at Shinjuku station is practically an impossibility. There are
so many entrances and exits and no obvious place to -
Beep beep!
See you at the east exit opposite the police box.
I look up. Well, I guess I have no excuse now.

Six months later...

Otsuchi still doesn't have a train station. Shuhei and I have hiked half a mile up one of the
picturesque hills overlooking the sea. Vertically. Hiked. Those words should never be seen
together, much less experienced at the same time.
"You promised to buy me a violin when you got home!"
I'm not complaining, in fairness.
"Well, forget it! I'll buy it myself!"
It's practically nature porn after staring at the concrete jungle of Tokyo for months on end.
"I'm really into boybands right now. I watch them every day."
Shuhei hasn't really said anything. He is just sitting there on the bench next to me, staring out at
the sea.
"Maybe I'll forget the violin and take up the electric guitar."
How is he not crying?
"That'll teach you for dying on us!"
The voice is muffled by the white wooden walls and glass panes, but I can tell it's a girl. Fairly
young. Maybe junior high school age. She's just sort of sobbing now. I don't blame her. I am a
heartless bastard and I can't stop the tears leaking out.
"Mum and Isshei are doing well. They miss you. Isshei has done all his homework. I guess
that's it. See you."
I turn to watch her as she puts the receiver down onto the disconnected phone inside. Her hand
hovers above it for a second, as though she is about to pick it up again. Then she turns, opens
the door of the phonebox, and steps out into the crisp February air. She doesn't even glance at
us as she sets off down the hill.
There is nothing but the sound of the sea. Shuhei is still staring glassy-eyed out towards the
ocean. I turn back to the phonebox again and examine the door. There is a sign in Japanese:
"Hello. We are waiting for you." Put there by the owners to let people know they're not alone,
apparently.
I feel a hand slip into mine and look back at Shuhei, who is standing up now. There is a soft
smile playing around his lips.
"I'm ready," he says.
"Then let's go."
I stand up and walk him over to the phonebox. He pulls open the door, as casually as anything,
and steps inside. We still haven't had sex yet. I'm not sure we ever will. I don't even know what
we are. But I'm surprised to find I don't care. This moment… is so incredibly important to him,
and I know I must be here for him. That's all that matters.
"Will you stay with me?"
"Of course. Might be a tight squeeze, though. Do you... think you will be able to say anything
this time?"
He shrugs, and places his hand on the receiver.
"Well… let's see, shall we?"
Outside, the wind blows.

But he just smiles and takes my hand.

"How are you not crying?" I ask. "That girl… she lost her father."
Shuhei shrugs. "I've come here ten times already, I guess. I always sit here and listen."
"Do you think you'll be able to say anything this time?"
He freezes, almost as if he had forgotten why we were there.
Six months later…
Otsuchi still doesn't have a train station. It was wiped out in the tsunami. To reach the
telephone, we have to hike it from the nearest bus stop. I don't mind. Otsuchi still looks like a
building site, but the surrounding hills are beautiful. Halfway up, the sea heaves into view.
"It's calm today," Shuhei says. I am struck by how confident and purposeful he seems. But then,
he has done this part before.
We walk in silence, our hands thrust deep into our coat pockets to protect against the cold. I
wonder what he is thinking about. Five years ago, he watched his hometown get completely
washed away. I can't even imagine how strong someone has to be to deal with that.
"There it is," he says, pointing at a little turquoise roof just visible up the hill.
I survey it critically. "It looks like it's in someone's garden."
"Someone has to take care of it."
There is a makeshift path of concrete slabs winding around some empty flowerbeds. A little
metal archway with a bell hanging from the top. A bench, facing out towards the sea. Even in
the winter, it's a beautiful place.
About halfway along the path, I start to wonder about my own motivations for being here. Is this
going to be like grief-porn? Am I here to get off on this? I have never experienced anything like
the loss of a close family member - there is no reason for me to be here.
But as we get closer, these feelings evaporate, and I realize this will be anything but grief-porn.
"Someone is inside," Shuhei says, pointing. We can hear crying. Heavy, heaving sobs of grief
and anger. Completely undammable, not unlike the tsunami that caused them.
I stop, not wanting to intrude. But Shuhei smiles and beckons me over to the bench where we
can hear.
"You promised to buy me a violin when you got home!"
The voice is muffled by the white wooden walls and glass panes, but I can tell it's a girl. Maybe
junior high school age.
"Well, forget it! I'll buy it myself!"
"Jesus fuck," I mutter, looking away from Shuhei so he can't see my leaky eyes.
"I'm really into boybands right now! I watch them every day."
But he just smiles and takes my hand.
"How are you not crying?" I ask. "That girl… she lost her father."
Shuhei shrugs. "I've come here ten times already, I guess. I always sit here and listen."
"Do you think you'll be able to say anything this time?"
He freezes, almost as if he had forgotten why we were there.
Shinjuku story - notes

This story was difficult to get right for a number of reasons. As you can see from the mindmap
below, it started out very differently - it was meant to be a coming out story. Muttley was
originally a different character called Nate Richards, whose career as a music artist made it
difficult for him to experiment with his sexuality. In Shinjuku, far away from everyone he knew
and minutes away from the most concentrated gay area in the entire world, I planned to ply him
with a tempest of temptations.

It didn't work out that way, though. One of the reasons for this is that I managed to write 2,500
words before even getting close to introducing Shuhei. I realized I had unwittingly given myself
enough material to write a whole novel, so I had to scrap it (including my favourite character,
Fiona) and start again.

When I came back to it, I realized the story I really wanted to tell was more messed up than my
original concept. Both Muttley and Shuhei are at points in their lives where they are unable to
move forward. Shuhei has worked in that bar for four years. He is trapped in that industry.
Meanwhile, Muttley is so obsessed with sex that he is unable to think about much else and has
forced himself into his own dead end. He can't get into a relationship because he is always
looking for the next easy shag.

It was important for me to get Nichome right because it's easily the place in Japan where I have
spent the most time. You'll notice each bar they visit has a contrasting character to the one
before. It is genuinely one of the most fascinating places to spend an evening, especially if
you're with someone who knows the place.

TMaPP is also about grief, though. The Phone of the Wind is actually a thing. It was set up
before the 2011 tsunami by a resident who had lost his brother. After the disaster, however, it
became a sort of pilgrimage for those who had lost loved ones during the tsunami. The people
who visit range from crying widowers to chatty grandmothers to carefree children. Some folks
can't say anything, their grief is so overwhelming. But they continue to go back. It was important
for me to have an ending to this story to work towards, so this was one of the first scenes I
wrote. It was pruned and changed and edited extensively, though.

Despite Muttley's obvious sex addiction, I do think he has a very good relationship with Tomo
(who I like to think is Tomoki from my previous story, but a couple of years older). When Tomo
suggests Muttley pay money to sleep with Shuhei, he is speaking out of genuine concern and
wisdom. "Get this guy out of your system and do something healthy," his words mean. Muttley's
response is "It's not the same thing." Muttley needs to be wanted in order to have sex with
someone. His insecurities mean he can't even imagine having sex with someone who doesn't
want to have sex with him, even if it's transactional.
Shuhei Yamada

This is Shuhei Yamada, and he works in a bar. I haven't finished drawing his face yet because I
am terrified of fucking it up. (Faces are REALLY hard to draw, as you can tell from my previous
character sketches). Also, I don't want to spill too many story details, so I'm going to talk about
things in a very general way, and you (the dear reader) can put the pieces together.

One of the things about the 2011 earthquake and tsunami was that there was suddenly a very
large number of people out of work in large coastal communities. Most survivors over the age of
30 had money, knowledge, and contacts to secure new jobs in the area. There was no need to
relocate.

For young people (we're talking late teens and early-to-mid twenties), the situation was infinitely
more complicated. Many had no choice but to move to Tokyo for work - particularly if they had
lost parents and other family members.

Imagine having to uproot your existence - not out of choice but because of a natural disaster - to
miles away from your hometown, friends, and family. How would it feel to do that journey?

Imagine arriving in Tokyo and finding out that the only jobs you are qualified to do are working in
a convenience store or on construction site ("8000 yen for a ten-hour day, and you'll be grateful
for it"). How would that change your outlook on life?

Imagine -

Actually, this post was going to be longer but it all got a bit emotional here at Alex HQ, and now
it's 2am. So let's bid Shuhei good luck and leave him there for now.