Hyphenated

Airports… nothing is more less exciting for me than maybe reading about a person’s experience in an airport.

Subway sandwich. 980yen for the big one. Hadn’t had breakfast and lunchtime was almost over, so the 700 or so calories were welcome.

Bookstore… it all came down to the price, which was about 1000 yen. A book of short stories. 50 Great Ones. Maybe I can remember enough about each one of them so that, one day, at some party or dinner, I can impress a literate ‘intellectual’ who didn’t see it coming. 

On the way back, we'll be loaded with used books. This transgression, a purchasing of the new, is forgivable.

I think I get airport bookstores now. 

“God, why does the Duck put himself that kind of pain on what seems like a daily basis?”

"At least he shares."

"Smartass...bastard."

Waiting in line at immigration, after having remembered to fill out the form (Christ, do I really want to come back?), I stand behind a guy with a huge upper-body. He’s still a little hung over from his three day business trip. He asks what I do. Then I ask what he does. 

An engineer, born in Hokkaido… stayed there till he was four. By his accent, sounds like he’s lived all over the world. Which sounds about right. Hokkaido until four. Parents were (maybe still are) diplomats. From Jamaica. Could have been Japanese too, but that would have required him giving up us US citizenship. He asked my if I had Japanese citizenship. My answer was the same as his.

Mr. Electricity, arms like Zeus, is heading back to Dallas eventually… or was it DC. Was his turn to go through immigration, so the conversation stopped there.

Next was my turn. After a smooth and humorous (no not humorously smooth… I wasn’t trying to pick up on her, I swear)… she smiled, laughed and seemed remarkably easygoing for immigration. Her bowl-cut wasn't so cute, but she did have a nice smile. At me, she smi...

Walked on down the hall…

One of the pretties standing outside the Bermuda 'stink' Triangle waved me down. So pretty. So thin. So telling me in her well practiced English that, “Wait, have one. This is for men.” Another smile. And the reek of Ralph Lauren for a second I remembered junior high dances. In the hands of a 13-year-old, that stuff is lethal. It must be the man on the horse with his mallet giving me a headache, that or Hokkaido-born Jamaican-American’s engineering-induced hangover was going viral.

Now I sit, still sweaty from carrying the bags, starting to cool off. Wondering.  

On this trip, we will cautiously embrace the technology. Let it see where we are. 

No promises. Nothing more than the mundane. 

Just going to explore a little.

Battery going out.