A contented silence, the gentle swaying and breeze of the monorail. I can see right down to its front, the train warping with the curve rail mirrors itself in a spotless steely roof. Where is the grime?
The seat arrangement is like a calculated game of antiocial tetris, designed so no one person faces another. Talking would be unreasonable, no? A cube of luggage space here where I stand, two seaters facing just beyond that, single seats jammed against the corner of the rounded windows and standers stood between. I'm a whole head and shoulders (borderline knees too) above the carriage. Stood, I can see the pattern right down the train, hundreds of phones. Just like the Northern line, but with better posture. One hand scrollers, holding the long branch of perfectly lined handholds.
Can I street drink?
Yeah mate
Alright, go on then
The cans glow in tall fridges. A wall of ice cold booze at the back of every Lawson, 7-eleven and Family Mart (in order of quality; worst to best), there are no duds, though it's hard to spot a 0%, harder still to avoid the 9%-ers. Right into the Japanese evening I'd anticipated. Dropped my rucksack and bike at the cheapest hostel, and wandered off into Shinjuku.
"Want massage?"
"Blowjob?
"You like titties?"
Lovely.
It's as seedy as I'd heard.
A couple of days later, I’m sat in a Jazz bar, difficult to find in the heart of Shinjuku. Alone with Allan Konan, a guitarist, and the barkeep, a lovely lady with clinincal choice of record. The place was quiet as I went in, the piano didn’t even get the chance to pause when the honky walked in, I stoop through the door and order a highball to break the silence. Granny barkeep sticks a record on a makes up my mix.
A few of the same mixes later, deep in a choppy conversation with Allen, pouring cultural and hiking reccomendations into my notebook, we’re joined by Joe, an American in Japan for a few days. Kindest English-speaker I’ve met in Shinjuku yet. As plans go, from Mexico to San Diego for a week on the sofa, is a pretty damn good one...