AWAY AND ELSEWHERE

It is 8:30 AM and I am in a small traditional sushi restaurant trying to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I can. My trip is coming to a close. One last embrace of freedom before two years of subjection that circumstance demands. There is only a middle-aged couple sitting at one of the tables behind me. I sit at the bar watching the chefs dish out another day of work. They work quietly and I am not sure if it is a look of calm or resignation on their faces. Is this what they have truly chosen to do, every day (of course with the sporadic, short-lived holidays) for the rest of their lives? The chef says something in Japanese (which I dont understand) and presents me with the platter of sushi that I ordered. My eyes pick out the most unfamiliar looking ones. The ones that inspire such exclamations in me as How bizarre! How exotic! I tuck in and I dont know if it is the taste of the sushi that I enjoy or the fact that they feel and look strange and foreign to me; such unfamiliar textures.

A thirty-dollar breakfast! I think, sort of triumphantly, walking along the small winding roads at Jogai Shijo (The Hougang boy in me, reveling in the high of rare extravagant spending). Yet, despite my gleeful recount of the indulgence, I feel a hint of shame and self-loathing; I cannot exactly tell why. Perhaps it is the middle class survival instinct kicking in. The street is crowded with tourists snapping away and gazing in awe at the cold, wet fish and wares. Plenty for all! A fish monger to the right, a sushi restaurant to the left; they are happy to see us, we are happy to see them. The smell of the fish pervades the air but this is why everybody is here. A thought suddenly strikes me. Camaraderie may not come cheaply but it is pretty easily available. A pair of eyes catches mine. A waving hand. A middle-aged lady in a pink Kimono. She must be motioning to the Caucasian man in the baseball cap in front of me. He has a round belly resting upon the belt looped through his khaki pants with pockets bulging from being jammed full of things. He looks like the type of man who is used to his friends joking about his weight and jokes about it himself, laughing it off because it has become who he is and he takes life easy. An obvious tourist waiting to be

pounced upon. But he walks into the store on the right and speaks to the owner (in Japanese!), making casual conversation. It seems they are old friends. The woman is still waving. So she was indeed, waving at me. I had always thought myself as looking like I lacked potential spending power (nobody ever tries to sell me anything back home!) She is still beckoning me overA fishmonger behind calls out loudly to some potential customers and I get a shockI snap out of that sudden wave of nave enthusiasm. I have had my breakfast and it is way too early for lunch. Im not even hungry. I nod and smile at the lady in the kimono and am on my way. She is already waving and gesturing to someone else in the crowd. I wonder if she was thinking Damn tourist, what do you think your smiles worth?

Along a crowded street, I tactfully manoeuvre through the bodies of tourists and fashion forward Japanese teenagers. Keep a smiling face and good attitude to avoid trouble finding you in a foreign place they say. Crowded streets make me feel alive. Feeling alive makes me weary. Weariness makes me want to die. Then I feel a longing to be alive. Everybody along the street quickens their pace where there are units of Nigerian men stationed to hassle people and earn their living off vice. They are dressed in ominously dark clothing, as if reflective off their purpose there. They have a strong assertive stance and heavy eyes. Weary from work, who isnt? The whimsical eccentric atmosphere seems to suddenly be in tension with the daunting, muscular heaviness at these points of the street, yet it feels as if this was how it was meant to be. They exist in a strange harmony with one another. I also attempt to hurry on by, putting on a little show in which I am rushing to the opening of my friends newly opened caf.

It is a place where there is art (of all forms) and they are all welcome regardless of the artists reputation or portfolio. It is a cosy place with beautiful warm lighting and a rustic quality about it. There is an elegant coffee machine at the counter and a small, arched, mosaic tile-lined window where the chef would occasionally appear at, with his creations. There are old wooden tables with names and love notes scratched unto them (scratched into existence in the universe) and heavy, metal chairs with lavish designs from a bygone era. A softly immaculate, graceful form walks up to me. She wears a pastel colored jacket that evokes a strange reminiscence of a softness and joy and wonder. She is the waitress here. She asks me what I would have and I ask for a cappuccino even though I do not feel like drinking coffee. It is the easiest thing I can instinctively utter with some form of composure (it being what I would order at any unfamiliar cafes, there is a comfort in knowing one is pronouncing an order right and that there would be no embarrassing revelation of a lack of knowledge, especially in the presence of a beautiful lady!). I hope she does not think me an anxious, bumbling fool. She takes note of my order and in the style of a seasoned waitress, gives a distanced friendly smile, spins round and proceedsI catch her lightly by the wrist with 2 light fingers (I intend no offense though). She is caught off guard but composes herself in a split second (such elegance and cool confidence!). I am slightly embarrassed. Then I make the decision over which I was pondering since I first saw her. I put aside fear of shame and repute. I have no name here. My heart is pounding. As if drums were beating in

a ritual around a burning fire marking the departure from a usual self. As if the universe said this is the beginning of a new chapter. I ask if I may have 2 cappuccinos instead and whether she would share a conversation over coffee with me. I already regret my requestsit sounded better in my head and I must surely look like a fool now. She smiles Thats a kind offer and really sweet of you! But Im just too busy, Im sorry. So itll just be one cappuccino still, yeah? My heart sinks and continues sinking into the abyss of itself Hey bro! one of the Nigerian thugs puts a firm hand on my shoulderI am winded, with a dull ache in my spirit. I am not sure if it is the acknowledgement of failure or the fear. Getting lost in my own thoughts and forgetting original intent, how typical. His hand is heavy on my shoulder as he guides me to the side saying something. I cant catch what he is saying and I am starting to panic. I wiggle myself loose from his grip and break into a run. He starts to laugh. Down the street, past the tourists and eager shop owners calling out to them, I hear his laughing in the distance slowly fading away. I think about how pleasant the imagined caf was and how unpleasant the alarming cacophony of reality can be at times. Dreaming is pleasant but dont forget to keep an eye open in the present.

I walk along a row of second hand bookstores and eateries. It is a cool night (cold enough to make me bury my hands in my pocket for refuge but I am enjoying this change from the scorching heat back home) and the street is neither too crowded nor too empty. Everybody is winding down. The street is winding down. The eateries are filled with men and women in their working attire. The bookstores with university students (some gazing intently at the shelves of books; some rooted where they are, lost in one) and stragglers belonging to neither of the lot, stroll along, entering the stores and unsettle the seemingly organised system of store patronage. Nobody is too bothered by each other. It has been a long day and everybody is winding down. A serene calm descends on the street, like a lullaby. I walk and marvel quietly to myself at the dream-like quality of this night (I almost panic at the thought that I may be unaware of being in a dream but I feel the aching of my soles from walking about the whole day and relax) How pleasant! My attention is drawn back to my present being when I suddenly notice a girl wrapped in an olive overcoat walking in my direction. She has a certain familiar charm about her. Is it her upturned nose?

Her hair? Or the poised, reserved manner in which she walks? She looks at me and I turn away hurriedly. I dont want to know what is registered on her face. A madness of the heart, stirring at the encountering of a beautiful girl is all it was. How silly. How embarrassing! I do confess that a part of me had been hoping for something to happen. That we might be acquainted before this day is done. But these things dont just happen uncalculated. We must be two hundred metres from where we passed each other now. This is better, the nonevent and transpiring of nothing. Normality. I will forget her in a little bit. DISK UNION I chance upon a record store. My spirits are lifted a little and I squeeze down the cramped passageway with little steps. The grey, concrete walls along this narrow stairway to the basement are adorned with posters. UPCOMING SHOW: UP AND COMING METAL BANDS. UPCOMING RELEASE: ACCLAIMED JAZZ BANDS LATEST. The dull, yellowish fluorescent tube of light above gives them an expired quality. I wonder if somebody is in charge of maintaining this wall and making sure the posters on it are up to date. How many of these posters are expired? I catch my reflection on one of the glossy posters. I cannot expire, not yet. I havent even been.

I enter the store and am greeted by the unusually un-fatigued staff. I spend a good forty minutes inside. The store is cramped full with records and CDs and small walkways that fit only one person at a time. Quite the test of ones dexterity; attempting to contort ones body and step like an awkward, lumbering ballerina to get pass a machine-like, seasoned record hunter noisily going through the records at break neck speed. I decide that I have had my fill of today and am ready to let it pass. I pay for the two records I have picked out (A Benjamin Britten and an Animal Collective LP) and am on my way. I am in fairly high spirits. Once more down the street, then the trains, then the hotel (rest for my aching feet!) I approach Jimbocho crossing. The train station is right beside it, just past the bend aheadsomething, some feeling, compels me to look upA girl steps out from behind the bend and waits at the traffic light by the road. It is the girl from earlier this evening. She sees me too and we are both stunned for a moment. I smile. She smiles politely back. As if

two old friends have stumbled upon one another again. What then? What comes next? I walk to her ready for what might comeNothing. The traffic lights turn green and the beeping beckons her not to tarry. Her eyes break away and she runs across the road. I take the train back and try to remember the image of the girl at Jimbocho crossing. What is a smile worth? Nothing much but its all youre going to get from people for the most part. It lacks no value and gives no big purpose. Get over it.

10

I am in a beautifully lit caf hidden below a flight of steps from the streets of Roppongi. There is artwork on the walls and little trinkets on shelves making the place somewhat homely and comforting. I sit stupefied almost. So taken by the beauty of the girl in the light pastel peach jacket behind the counter, those auburn locks, the light freckles on her face and large greenish brown eyes (that seem to tell that she is one who has not given up the desire for adventure). Her gently narrow chin and soft thin lips radiate a pleasant confidence about her. I make no exaggeration when I say that her simple, girlish charm and gentle air far outshines all the artwork in here. She stands a portrait of independence and comeliness. I notice she is coming over (as I have not ordered anything) and pretend I am busy observing something outside. I turn back in pleasant surprise when she is at my table (it doesnt feel at all natural and I hope she doesnt notice). She has a delicate voice that seems to inspire my heart to dance along with it. She starts to look puzzled and I realise I have no idea what the words she has been uttering mean. She has been speaking Japanese. I stutter in confusion, both at the present situation (she is mistaken, I am a tourist)

11

and at being in the presence of a beautiful girl. She gathers I am a foreigner and switches to English, asking me what I would have. I order a burger and a coke. She takes note of the order and leaves. Her Japanese sounds too fluent for her to be a student from abroad. She also speaks with an American accent. What an adventure her life must be. I want to know all about her. I try to discourage my heart from this desperate wanting in my soul. How foolish and typical, to be so enthralled by a charming girl. Yet I cannot help but to admire such immense beauty, what a feeling it inspires. It is being human. It is one of the wonders of living, is it not? It has been twenty-five minutes now and she returns with the burger and coke I ordered. I put the two thousand yen in the tray and she goes back behind the counter and returns with my change on the tray. Both times I had wanted to say more than thank you. To introduce myself and ask and know more about her but both times it felt like the wrong time. There is a sparse attendance in the caf today and nobody else is ordering anything. She rests her elbows on the counter and stares out of the window. Four Japanese ladies sit in a corner chatting away, carefully moderating their laughter; eating daintily. The owner of the caf is engaged in a lively conversation with her friends. A weary bespectacled man sits at the bar with a pint of beer lost in his thoughts. There is a nice, comfortable pace to the scene and I dont even know how much time has passed, it feels like it can go on for many more hours. I sit where I am with the uneaten burger in front of me still enchanted by the girl

12

behind the counter. What pains plague her and what dreams sustain her? What seizes her thoughts in such contemplative moments? What does sheshe snaps into movement. She fishes in her pocket and pulls out a pen. She searches the cabinets behind the counter in a sudden urgency and it strikes me how there is elegance even in the frantic flurry of her steps (It also strikes me how infatuated I am, how shallow!) Slightly muttering something, she shakes her head and grabs a paper napkin from a box at the counter and starts writing. A writer! All reason has been torn asunder! I must speak with her. I want to know all about her. I try to compose myself and start making plans. I shall speak with her when I return my plate at the counter. I should start thinking about what to say to her while finishing this burger. What will she think of a stranger coming up to her and attempting to speak with her? How do I start? A smile, a simple helloShe steps out from behind the counter and waves to the owner of the caf. Her shift is over. The door swings open and she is at the steps outside of the caf. It all happens so quickly I can think or do nothing but watch. I look one last time at her, trying to take in as much detail as I can. She has a petite frame (more so than I noticed earlier). She is wearing a light-coloured pair of jeans and a pastel peach jacket. She has a head of long, wavy auburn hair and a face that features most prominently large eyes and a longish nose with light freckles across it. She seems to have appeared from a dream. I watch as she heads up the stairs into the rowdy nighttime streets of Roppongi. That is the last I will see of her, I am leaving tomorrow. Here I am, with a cold, half-eaten burger and a

13

half-hearted resolve to get over it. A paper napkin catches my eye as it floats gently from the counter to the floor. It is the one she wrote on. Then I suddenly realise what a fool I had been, jumping to my own conclusions. It could simply be a to-do list she was jotting down; to see on paper and motivate her to complete the tasks to be done before the day is over. Maybe some suggestions for new items that can be included on the menu or perhaps a note to the boss, informing her that there was a call earlier today and the newly ordered kitchenware will be arriving a day earlier than they had anticipated. It could be anything. All that thinking and feeling for nothing. It is just as well though, considering she has left and I wont see her again and I dont even have her name. Nobody has seen the napkin lying under the chair. It has been about 7 minutes now and I quickly go over, trying my best not to catch anybodys attention, and pick it up. It is the vindication of my folly and wretched idealisation, I am sure. I straighten the paper napkin and read the writing in blue ink on it. IDEA: Away, away over mountains and the ocean Carried away by circumstance Will it all be lost and forgotten? The dancer put her thoughts away, got on the stage and broke into dance

14

So she is a writer! I brace myself as the swarm of regret and frustration descends upon me. It might have been easier to brush off the dust of inaction and forget about it but nowa sudden hollowness in my chest seems to threaten to swallow me wholethe fact is now nothing has changed. I am a stranger, I am a tourist and it is clear that I am still caught up in my mad infatuation. Get over it, man!

15

It is 12:17 a.m. and I am in the airport, seated at the passenger waiting area. I look through the flight details once more to make sure I am on time and at the right gate. Just a few more processes to go. The slow, painstaking chain of procedures that begins from the hotel checkout counter is a conveyor belt that I am on, being delivered to the end where friendly smiles will welcome me back home. This is the way things are. The dreaming is over. The trip had been good, as all endeavours in adventure usually are. Filled with people whom my soul reached out longingly for and honest moments that tugged at my guts. Lured out by the promise of the unknown, at the great potential of experiencing life and what might spring forth from its depths. But unsurprisingly (and slightly disappointingly), nothing profound came out of this trip. I am still me and I am headed back where I have come from. I have been dreading this return. Back to the endless talk of commerce and stagnant coffee shop banter. Back to be forced to serve a cause I dont believe in I stop myselfThe reality of what is to come is rather bleak but it is not here yet. I start to feel better, like the air is

16

suddenly fresher, like I have climbed out of the hole of despair (but really though, I can feel the specter of it still lingering about me) To my left, a young couple flirts playfully with each other, giggling and whispering in each others ears. The well-dressed, lanky young Indian man looks to be in his early twenties; sporting slick black hair thoroughly combed back and a gaunt face. The slightly plump young Chinese lady in his arms looks to be twenty. She has a heart-shaped face and dark circles under her eyes. Her outbursts of laughter reveal slightly crooked teeth. My thoughts have lingered upon these two for far too long and their jubilance and nonchalance is starting to unsettle me for some reason. I shift my gaze back ahead and a large character arriving briskly at the seat opposite of me catches it. He is in a pair of shiny black leather shoes and a well-tailored shirt and pair of pants. The large, stalwart man drops his weight on the now frail looking seat. He has a boxy face with a strong jawline and long dark curly hair tied back in a ponytail. He straightens his back and raises his left arm almost enthusiastically and squints a little inspecting his watch for the time. He looks up from his watch nodding in approval of his findings and notices me looking at him. He smiles broadly with that strange air of hollow enthusiasm that businessmen possess and asks good weather today eh? in a thick Australian accent. I smile back and nod slightly to be polite and shift my gaze out the window. The gently assertive voice of a young air stewardess calls out over the PA system waking everybody in the passenger waiting area and setting us to task.

17

The young couple beside me has already joined the queue. The businessman gives a big, loud yawn and heads for the queue with big strides and a default friendly face. We all enter the plane, each individually greeted by the same smile on the face of the air stewardess by the airplane door. Everybody is seated in the sterile airplane cabin, some coming to grips with the end of an adventure, some in anticipation of one to come, some glad to be returning to the comfort of home and some just numbly doing their job. The captain announces that the weather is good today and there will be no delay. The pre-flight safety instructions are recited and performed and away we go. There is a loud roaring and rumbling as the plane lifts off from the runway. I see the buildings outside the window getting smaller and then the land slowly fading away into the distance. I feel a light tapping and turn to the old man seated beside me. He is pointing to where my bag is, under the seat. The paper napkin with the writing in blue ink must have fallen out of my pocket earlier! I bend and squeeze awkwardly in the small space to pick it up, frantic at my almost losing it. I thank him sincerely and he smiles warmly. I try to calm myself, looking outside at the ocean below. Away, away over mountains and the ocean Carried away by circumstance Could I possibly find her again if someday I return? The traveller thought of the writer with her words in his hands

18

Horrid. I feel like Im imposing. I place the paper napkin carefully between the pages of my notebook, tuck it safely into my bag and close my eyes to sleep it all away. I hope I dream of the girl behind the counter.

19