I want to remember.
I want to remember how I almost burst from having too much joy at a little club filled with people and house music last night. It’s not necessarily my scene, of course, but when there’s a deejay pulling smiles from a plenty responsive crowd, a couple guys on drums keeping time, a trombone and a trumpet player going nuts on their horns, well, there’s a reason I didn’t leave until after 4. Where did that time go? The sun had already started to rise and I smelled something awful but, come on … Tokyo, you did it right last night.
I want to remember how easy it was to give into a smiling young crowd holding FREE HUGS signs. I took my photos and I shook off any reservations and I got my hug. For a guy wandering around a land and city he isn’t known in for hours and hours on end, it was some kind of relief to connect with someone, even briefly.
I want to remember I went to the Lost in Translation hotel, even though I knew in my heart Bill Murray wouldn’t be there to talk to.
I want to remember how tidy my lunch dishes looked, in the middle of a park and in the open air, when I ate something called that had chicken and eggs and rice in it. I want to remember the room service pizza and tiramisu still making my stomach happy.
I want to remember to wear socks. As much as I love my flips, miles of walking means the bottoms of my feet hate a little on me right now.
I want to remember the sense of adventure that gets renewed in this expansive country every single day. Tomorrow I visit a busy fish market along with a new photographer friend of mine who is lucky enough to live here. Someone said I’d smell like fish the rest of the day. I only hope that part’s not true.
I want to remember I’ve just 36 hours or so to go. I want to keep seeing this beautiful weirdness. I want to remember how many photos I took.
I want to remember and so I pick out small pockets of time and I fill them up with writing. I want to remember now so I have a harder time forgetting later.