After school I walk down the steps of my school, and turn left, going through a dense neighborhood of houses, interspersed with tiny shops full of alcohol, sushi, cigarettes, laundry. My students ride by on bicycles, calling my name out from behind. At the end I turn left in front of a garage that contains a religious shrine and several old men, and the air is filled with the smell of burning incense.
As I finish walking down the main street, with motorcycles, tiny cars, and bicycles buzzing by, I turn down a narrow alley and head towards my train station. The streets here are much more narrow, and if a car comes through, you have to stand on somebody’s doorstep to get out of the way. People are walking in and out of their homes, sweeping up leaves from their driveway, talking with neighbors, and cooking dinner.
The station is surrounded by tiny shops and large pachinko parlors, and behind and above every shop is another layer of shops and buildings that hold even more mysteries. At the train station I wait with fifteen or twenty other people for the 5:15 train, and when it comes, I settle into a chair near the door. The train is almost empty, since I’m traveling the opposite direction of the main commute. The countryside goes by quickly, and next to my speeding train the bullet train rockets by even faster, on it’s way to Kobe, Osaka, Kyoto, and then Tokyo.
The limited express train makes a quick eight minute trip to my station, and I walk down the steps into Futami and past the smells of fresh bread from a local bakery. The road home is lined with many stores, bars, and restaurants. I walk past a convenience store and see several people reading magazines for free right off the rack. One guys holds a porn magazine uncomfortably close to his face, but nobody next to him seems to notice or care.
I walk by people that glance at me furtively, looking away when I look at them. Kids stare, girls smile, old men frown, businessmen nod, ladies ignore, students grin. I walk past a temple that is older than the United States, and weave through a neighborhood of concrete and wood, saying hello to people I see everyday, and avoiding the homes with the barking dogs.
After a ten minute walk I approach my apartment block, and walk by twenty kids playing in sand under the watchful eye of five moms. One yells across the playground in Japanese, asking me what I’m cooking for dinner. The moms grin and look at each other, knowing the daily ritual. Still, they are curious, and listen carefully to my short, mangled answer in Japanese. I bow to them as I walk by, and they bow back and giggle.
As I walk up my staircase, I smell dinner cooking behind metal doors, with strange but delicious smells that I can’t identify. Finally, at the top of the first flight, I unlock my door, and settle into my apartment, getting my own dinner ready and looking forward to another tough commute tomorrow.
