It is very warm. And wet. Like a jungle without anything good. I am looking into the dead eyes of an animal that is not an animal. It is a monster, one I know from my childhood. It is hanging from the bag of a girl who is too old to care about Elmo, but then again, so am I. the train is foggy, and my glasses are turning white as I breathe. Two minutes ago I watched 100 people empty the space that 20 now fill. Even we are standing quite close. I feel a bit sick from the heat, the smell of wet overcoats hanging in the air. We arrive at my stop. Elmo leads me to the gates, where anxious, late feet and the beep of each swipe being to wake me.

A lot of people have asked me why I moved to Japan. I think the truest answer I’ve given is that I was bored. I was. I had a job, a great place to live, parties, every weekend, books to read, a nice collection of liquor… but I was bored. So I left. I made some half-assed attempts to learn Japanese, bought a plane ticket to Tokyo, sold all my stuff, and left. I probably wouldn’t have done it without Alan, who speaks a good deal of Japanese and has friends here that have made the feeling of isolation a little more bearable.

Working in Japan is a lot like working in America. You wake up, curse a little bit, turn off your alarm, get up, eat some food, get dressed, brush your teeth, and get on a train. It’s easy. It’s routine. It’s soul crushing. It’s comforting.

The trains are different because no one drives, and no one looks at each other, meaning everyone is on a train going somewhere, avoiding looking at the people four inches away from them. I guess they could also be intently staring at any foreigners who might be present—that is acceptable.

Changing trains is arguably the most exciting part of the workday. I grew up in places where there either weren’t a lot of people or they just avoided gathering together in groups greater than twenty, so my childhood experiences never really impressed on me the magnitude of a stampede. There were the wildebeests that killed Mufasa in The Lion King, which I guess exposed me to the idea, but seriously, those are fucking wildebeests. In Africa. Traumatizing the voice of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Easy enough to forget. I have since seen things much more impressive. I have seen grown men pushing children aside as they rush to make the train. A throng of people in suits moving as one, threatening to trample anyone who dares enter its path. I have entered that path many times. Each time I am filled with a kind of double-dutch-timing apprehension—I must enter at the time that will allow me to avoid the first rope and the second. However, there are hundreds of ropes (people), and hundreds of contestants pushing me forward so they can also have their turns. Instead of being thwacked by the ropes about my legs, I am pounded in the sternum by the bony shoulder of a small man and sent reeling into those who have gone before me. Certainly the game gets easier over time, but try playing double-dutch-comme-chicken with a stampede of wildebeests while still half asleep. There’s always an element of danger, and my throat tightens each time.

I’ll miss that.

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