The following is not actually a single narrative of one continuous evening, but a composite of many. It’s written as a representative summary of my average night out in Kyoto. Nothing is exaggerated.
It’s Saturday evening, dusk. I’m standing alone on the Sanjo bridge in Downtown Kyoto looking out over the Kamo river. To my left stands a Buddhist monk silently holding a collection plate, his face hidden by an enormous straw hat. To my right is the Lawson’s convenience store, illuminating the street with its fluorescent glow. Inside nearly a hundred young students hurry to stock up on beer and fireworks to keep them entertained throughout the warm Summer night that lie ahead. I pop in for a single can of Lemon Chu-Hai. The familiar staff greets me in the usual way, with a bow and an energetic shout of “γγγ£γγγγΎγδ»ζ©γ―!” I pay for my drink with a 5000 yen bill and the clerk counts the change twice in front of me, passing it carefully with both hands and bowing once more before thanking me politely: “γγγγ¨γγγγγΎγγγΎγγθΆγδΈγγγΎγ.” As I head towards the door I can hear the same phrases echoing from each and every employee like perfect clockwork.
Just as I step outside and turn to approach the river, a quick gust of wind engulfs me in a cloud of smoke from below. It’s smoke of three different kinds: from a set of fireworks popping off somewhere in the distance, from the torches of a group of fire dancers who’ve come to please the cheering crowds, and from the Salaryman beside me, quietly sleeping with a cigarette still suspended from his tired fingers. Continue reading »
