We are crooked timber (I arrive)

If you count an afternoon in Kadikoy, this is my eighth trip to Asia.

I biked and hiked all over Seoul in the spring of 2012, eating live octopus and stepping foot in North Korea. 

Ten years ago, Tokyo and I first became acquainted, as tersely documented here. 

Taipei breezily asserted itself as my favorite city in the world in 2015. That opinion has not wavered.

Two years later I hiked the Japanese forests of Kyushu, taking in the museums and ramen shops of that western island in a wordless travelog titled "336 Hours in Fukuoka." 

Hong Kong turned me into a bundle of nerves in the fall of 2018, and I have finally gotten around to posting the "10 observations" I promised six years ago of that doomed metropolis. 

In October 2019 I explored the caves of central Malaysia, familiarized myself with that kleptocracy's peculiar coffeehouse culture and did my best to visit every noodle stall in Kuala Lumpur.

And now I'm back in Tokyo. It was a good fright, but a long one. After being fingerprinted and having my temperature taken, I took the Skyliner 166 to Nippori Station, stepping into a ward populated by deaf mutes. At 8:30 p.m., the streets of Arakawa-ku were enveloped by a lunar silence.

My landlord, Hsiao, handed me the sumo tickets I had delivered to his address and showed me around. He pointed out a clothes washer under a stairwell.

"Washer. Two hundred."

"But no dryer," I noted.

"Veranda," he countered.

He showed me a laminated paper detailing how the recycling works. 

Getting rid of your garbage is a constant struggle in Japan. Public waste bins were largely removed after the sarin-gas attacks in 1995. 

Back when we had rag pickers, recycling was a way of life. Now it's a matter of strict civic ordinance, and believe me, your neighbors in Japan will know exactly what you're putting out. 

Glass bottles and aluminum cans go in one bag, Hsiao explained. It's not clear to me what bag he's referring to. I'll start out by using the plastic bags they give you at the conbini. If I'm wrong, I'm sure I'll get an email.

Plastic bottles go in a separate bag. Both bags go in a blue mesh bag tied to the railing outside your apartment. Everybody has their own mesh bag. I am sure this will end well.

"Wife make sandwich. You eat?"

"Sure, I eat."

"In basket. 8 o'clock."

It will be fried noodles in a hot dog bun. I know this because every Chinese and Italian tourist who has passed through this building has said so in their Airbnb reviews. People love 'em. 

You can buy these carbohydrate bombs at 7-Eleven, but I'm getting one delivered to the basket outside my door every morning for the next two weeks. [Editor's note: My assumption was wrong. At this guesthouse, egg salad is the sandwich of the moment.]

Listen to these faint rustlings. You are in Japan, and small gestures carry big significance.

Did I think about saying, "No thanks"? Ha. Not a chance.