George Clooney Charms, Discreetly Vomits

Agreeing to a second naan, a second bedsheet of oily dough to mop up a thimble's worth of saag paneer, was, I realise, ill-advised. I was flagging even before the halfway mark, but somehow I forced myself to persist. Swallowing that final dripping handful, I feared the poor proprietors would have to witness the exodus of my insides. It's not a critique, I would say, desperately mopping up the brown-green melange spreading out before me. Fortunately my digestion calmed down and I was able to finish the remaining gulps of an oversweetened lassie and head out to find a proper drink. If that sounds unwise, I ask you, what is food, really, if not a means of avoiding drinking on an empty stomach?

The bar I settled on was named G7, after the chord, and was one of those small owner-operated joints that cater mostly to aging salarymen. Shortly after entering I was treated to the opening track from Donald Fagen's The Nightfly, which I immediately recognised and announced. The bartender, silently curating the soundtrack between pours, asked me if I also liked Fagan's dildo-inspired main act, though not precisely in those words. When he approached the subject of Japanese music, I had to confess to knowing little beyond film composers and the occasional oddball act that filters into the West. He nodded and keyed up a few tracks on the bar's impressive stereo, among them a Tatsuro Yamashita song I have come to cherish. The rest were mostly forgettable soft jazz numbers, but the bartender's accompanying air-drumming helped them go down. He was, I later discovered, a drummer himself.

"Jyo-ji Kuru-ni!"
I turned. On the next stool a middle-aged man with gawky features and a tired suit was pointing at me and drunkenly giggling. He repeated himself a couple of times before I realised what he was trying to say. Beyond having greying hair and sharing a race, it was an absurd observation. There followed a series of questions that I would have to answer more than once before leaving Japan:
"Where are you from?"
"Are you on holiday?"
"Why did you come to Japan?"
"Do you like Japanese women?"
My answer to the first question prompted the bartender to mischievously cue up Olivia Newton John and Air Supply records; I couldn't have felt less homesick. I was asked the last question by at least three other Japanese men, and all of them followed up by revealing, with varying degrees of seediness, their partiality to Australian women. Despite his opening gambit, this particular gentleman proved to be an agreeable sort, interrogating me with genuine curiosity and conversing in English even though, by his own admission, it was very difficult for him.

The company as easy as the listening, the evening was threatening to vanish into pure pleasantness, but lo, my earlier culinary misstep began to reassert itself, and I realised, barely a finger through my second draught, that I would need to be excused. It was less urgent then you might suppose; something inside me just said, calmly, Hey, you should probably find a bathroom. The ensuing outburst was so violent and voluminous it could not be contained within the bar's modestly sized toilet bowl. Is there anything sadder than having one's post-vomit elation sullied by the prospect of cleaning up? I couldn't do much about my pants or shoes, but I did, through studious application of paper towels, return the bathroom to the state I had found it in. It was as if I were a temperamental interior decorator who, having executed a freeform, curry-inspired paint job, had changed his mind and ordered everything to be undone.

I re-emerged and smoothly resumed the conversation like the Hollywood professional I was. Post bleghxit I opted to stick largely to water, while my comrade continued to sink half-pints of whatever was on tap. He had now reached the sentimental phase and was haphazardly listing things he was fond of, including the bar's sound system and an older patron whom he considered like a father. Then I noticed he was leaning in towards me.
"I... love you," he said.
I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly.
"I love you," he said again, articulating the words as carefully as his level of inebriation would allow.
Noticing I was having difficulty forming a response, the bartender intervened.
"Not gay," he said, pointing at the man. "Not gay." They both laughed, but I was no less baffled; you'd think I'd be used to fan adoration by now.

Half an hour later I liberated the rest of the curry and walked home.

Afternoons in Spring

My initial impression of Yoyogi Park was formed from brief glimpses of treetops by its bordering wall and nothing more; for most of the journey to Little Nap, my destination at the time, I stared fixedly ahead, with the purposeful determination that comes with bad weather. I spied the shop's facade on a side street lined with bare trees, just off one of the entrances to the park. Sheathing my sodden umbrella, I ordered a filter coffee and claimed a stool by the window. In my notebook I compared the dark swaying trees outside to alien skeletons and drew a childish picture of a wolf. I need not have bothered; the coffee shop, cosy and thoughfully designed, required no such intervention to justify the visit.

On my second trip the sky was clear and calm, and any chilliness was offset by persistent sunlight. I passed through the park's main gates with my sagging backpack and quickly discovered I was in no hurry to be anywhere else. Just the right amount of people had been scattered over the park for it to feel lively without being inhibitively crowded. People walking small, jacketed dogs. People sitting alone at communal tables, flipping through textbooks. People holding hands and tracing aimless paths. I remember them all in black or grey or muted colour. I wandered under a dark, vertebrae-like canopy, over dirt and fallen leaves and shadows. Down the central strip I heard the saints marching and fumbling. Ducks drifted under a bridge. Beyond the lake, a vast field dotted with picnickers. I sat on the concrete border of a pond and watched nearby branches turn black with murder.

The famous shrine next door could not match Yoyogi's deft way with a crowd. Here, itinerary whores stream down the wide gravel path and compete to take identical photos at each feature. Despite the considerable efforts of its architects, serenity is stamped out. I flitted through and finished my day elsewhere.

Flash Forward

I'm in a small, faultlessly executed coffee shop by the canal in the 19th arrondissement. I am sitting on a plastic chair, my legs crossed at the ankles, and I am wearing my uniform: green plaid shirt over off-white T-shirt, slim navy pants bulging at the pockets, pointed dress shoes with gutted interiors. My black hooded rain jacket, which houses my notebooks and surplus tissues in Velcro-enclosed pockets, is draped over the back of the chair. A woman with a pierced nose, faded white sneakers and an Apple laptop shares my table.

I am standing by the door, examining the menu and preparing my French. I finally settle on an Americano and begin my internal mantra: un Americano s'il vous plaît. I enter and approach the counter. Un Americano s'il vous plaît. The owner, an initially intimidating gentleman with an upside-down haircut (or bald with a beard, if you prefer), is stacking glasses on a high wooden shelf. Un Americano s'il vous plaît. He turns and asks me for my order, or so I presume. It is time.
"Un espresso por favor," I say. Yep, that's what came out.
"¿Lo tienes aquí o para ir?" he asks.
I freeze, trying to remember the only phrase I had perfected, the phrase I was gaily singing to myself while wandering the streets this very morning.
"Je ne..." I begin, all but swallowing my tongue. "Je ne... parle... pas français."
"I know," he says, switching to English. "You said 'por favor', that's why I answered in Spanish."
Later he asks me to move tables in needlessly voluminous French, as I have clearly demonstrated my mastery of the language. Salaud.

It is after midnight and the cat at the apartment has become a black and white cushion. I remember I am low on toothpaste.