Worn Into His Brow

Last night was out with friends who wanted me to hear some Cuban music in Tokyo.  That’s the wonderful sort of thing you can do it Tokyo that always makes it feel a bit more like New York, in a way that Beijing still can't approximate.  It is odd, and perhaps sad somehow that despite putting much less work into it over the years, my ability to understand a-contextual Spanish is notably better than with Chinese.  This, certainly when listening to songs in the two languages.  "My love!"  "She's a witch!" "The rhythm's fierce!"  

We were serenaded by a handsome guitarist, and a fabulous percussionist who both appeared to hail from Cuba.  The flautist and harmonium player meanwhile, was Japanese, did not speak Spanish but could sing Spanish and it certainly appeared to be the apple of the guitarist's eye.   This gent, our troubadour, seemed at one and the same time old, be young  as he sang out and glanced at his band members with large world-weary eyes,.  He seemed to have had had a few drinks and his share of trouble worn into is brow while at the same time he was, I believe, much younger than I. 

My old friends who live there in town, had invited other good friends, a couple from Colombia, residing in Tokyo, who were absolutely, lovely to speak with.  I asked him where he was from and didn't recognize the name "Pereira."  I asked if it was close to Cali or Medellin, or Bogata.  In Japan Google Maps works so I pulled out my phone and he showed me, explaining it formed a triangle with with Medellin and Bogata.  It was grand to watch their affinity with the singer.  And to watch them easily bond across distance and politics so far from Latin America with the currency of language and the unique character of that transcontinental civilization . 

 The man from Pereira  explained he’s had a bad cab ride I Beijing, and that he liked Shanghai more.  I said things about Beijing, which I’ve repeated hundreds of times before, in an obligatory effort to influence his perspective.  And then, as I often do I mentioned that when I have a rough time with a cab driver in South Korea, it strikes me that this must be what everyone who doesn’t speak Chinese feels like when they’re in Beijing.  I must, it seems, always lecture and then demonstrate empathy. 

I always want more food at the end of a Tokyo evening.  Often its because you’ve been nibbling on small portions all night and there is still a sense of never having had one’s fill.  I bid my friends farewell and turned to find a ramen place.  There is always some place serving something open till dawn in this city.  I popped the coins in the machine and ordered my tonkotsu pork broth ramen and gyoza, (guotianr) and wolfed them down, sitting there at the counter, all by myself, oblivious to whatever time it was.  

Friday, 12/21/19