Narita
I remembered it differently at first, but he was right, it was in Japan. I can remember everything else. The sterility of the air. The uncomfortable waiting chairs we sat in before. There was a lot of gray. An absence of smell. Gray carpet, gray walls. Garbage doesn’t smell bad in Japan.
(Or maybe it was all white?)
They had massage chairs for the weary. 595 yen for 10min. A man slept in one, two chairs down from us, with the cover of a white book covering his face. You sat in one and I sat in another. I can’t remember if we paid.
I remember not being able to breathe, wanting to be home. I felt that if I could lay my head on memory foam, shower in the first world, things could be okay. I remember remembering the night from two weeks before. The night I arrived and knew things were no longer right.
The humidity had been weakening. I was tired. Smog changed my voice, hurt my lungs. In California, they warn you not to go outside and breathe the air on the high smog level days. In that world, there were no such warnings.
I remember there was a lot of poverty there. Women and children and men sleeping in makeshift tents made out of less than 200-thread count blankets, hung between where you dump your garbage and where you pee on the ground. There is a lot of sadness. There are people everywhere, taking advantage of other people.
I remember eating comforting food. Remembered my grandpa. Felt easy in a world surrounded by familiarity. You were no longer familiar.
(akr)
