Hours before my scheduled Mario Kart tour, Tokyo reminded me of the serendipity that keeps me coming back here so often. During our brief ascent together my room was one the second floor , I learned the name of the man to whom the voice belonged was Jean, and that he was from Cannes. It was an unexpected flirtation he also complimented me on how my polo shirt brought out my eyes , though I was mostly being polite when I bid him farewell.
It was by the time I packed my camera and tripod up along Sakurada-DoriβI do everything last-minute in Japan, in spite of being way too early most anywhere else on the planet I travel. Not so. My slow read: safe driving angered the Aussie bros, who talked some Bogan-accented shit from time to time, an anger that probably also resulted from the fact that their chances of getting laid were decreasing by the second.
Which is not to say the experience was scary, even if it is shocking to me that such dodgy vehicles are allowed on the streets of a city as crowded as Tokyo in a country as safety-obsessed as Japan.
By the time I finished my Mario Kart tour, Tokyo was in the interstitial period between salarymen returning from work and night owls heading out to paint the town.
As I began my morning run, which first took me past a hostel I also imagine opened rather recently, one of the still-drunk bros on its porch this one, thankfully, not Australian shouted a phrase at me.
