Well, that's not true, but I do sometimes feel a bit anemic.
Life in Big City, the 'Pan is riddled with eccentricities, depending on which Big City you happen to call home. Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki differs from Osaka-style okonomiyaki in that it contains soba noodles. Osakans ride the escalator standing on the right side, allowing for faster-moving traffic to pass on the left. Tokyoites ride the escalator standing on the left, allowing passing on the right. And Kyotoans don't give a shit which side you want to pass on--those fuckers wouldn't let you by if the building were on fire. Yet, despite all the idiosyncrasies of each of the major cities in the 'Pan, there remains one major overarching constant: they're all fucking crowded.
The streets are crowded, the stations are crowded, the department stores are crowded, but nowhere is the crowdedness more noticeable or of a more severe degree than the escalator.
Perhaps some of you have seen this classic photo and have thought this was a uniquely American foible. It is not.
How often have I heard it lamented by Westerners that Asians seem to possess the preternatural ability to maintain a petite figure despite having an enormous appetite. Despite the best answers medical science can offer us at this time, I do know this: it is decidedly not the result of taking the stairs.
I think we're going to have to give bulimia the assist on this one
Life in the nucleus of a crowd is exhausting. It wearies the mind and soul to constantly be beleaguered by the pulsing glut of humanity. Midwestern life is boring, depressing, irritating, and embarrassing, but it's most certainly not crowded. Unless you happen to be one of those losers from Chicago, and if you are, fuck you for ruining my point. Even people who have spent their entire lives in the 'Pan concede that spending life shoulder-to-shoulder all day every day wears a bit thin.
Perhaps some of my readers are familiar with love hotels. Perhaps even a couple are intimately familiar with them. For those who aren't, I'll give you a quick rundown: it's the Japanese version of a Motel 6. It's where two people go to fuck in privacy in Japan, but unlike in America, you usually don't kill her afterward.
The "Rest" package typically isn't as restful as you might expect
I have heard, on more than one occasion, of friends going to these fine establishments and never once removing an article of clothing. They go to chill out, sing karaoke, play Playstation 2 (some people smoke after they bone; in Japan, I guess they play God of War), drink, and when the time is up, they pay the nice person behind the fogged glass window or slip the necessary amount in the automated money deposit, and leave.
A long way to go just to get away from it all.
My own place of refuge from the hustle and bustle of Big City life isn't nearly as expensive, and likely wouldn't horrify me if viewed under a black light. As much.
I take the stairs.
For a few precious moments, it's a breath of fresh air. A moment apart from the thickness that clings like chewing gum with every footstep.
I ride four trains through four different stations to arrive at work every day. An irreplaceable hour of life spent in a humanity compactor in a land that is not my own. But for the thirty huffing seconds between walking from one platform to the next, I'm home again.
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