Every block comes with a trash can or two. If not, there’s always the street. Rebellious. Carefree. I didn’t give a second thought to tossing my soda can and foil pretzel wrapper into the same receptacle. Where was the bin for cans? Eh, recycling is a hassle anyway. I didn’t clean the mustard from the foil, nor did I fret whether this material is classified as burnable or not.
I enjoyed a cityscape where I don’t climb three flights of stairs to enter a bookstore or bar; store signs make me feel literate. NY is synonymous with ease and accessibility. Every product, service, or foodstuff conceivable is at your fingertips, never more than a subway ride away.
As I descended into the bowels of the MTA, reverse culture shock paralyzed my senses. Sterile stations in Tokyo these were not. Instead, filth and diversity were in full bloom down here. Rats scurried around the graveyard for AA batteries and spent Metrocards. So while I stared at the tracks and waited, wondering if and when the N train was ever coming, I smiled at the slime coating the wall tiles. How NY. Platform air, humid and stale, smelled…like diversity. On one bench sat men in a yarmulke, turban, black do-rag, and red bandana. NY is where differences blend in; heterogeneity intersects with urban sophistication. Worlds collide harmoniously.
NYC seems like a National forest when compared to nature’s penetration of Tokyo’s concrete. Nonetheless, retreating back home in the suburbs titillated my nostrils with the scent of fresh mulch. Irises bloomed, chickadees chirped, and a dozen friends feasted on grilled meats, shrimp, and vegetables in my backyard bbq homecoming.
Click here for pictures of my father’s mouth-watering cooking and a competitive croquet game.
The hardest thing about NY was leaving. The hardest thing about going back to Japan would be fooling immigration to let an illegal alien in as a tourist.
No comments:
Post a Comment