The simple dumb thing I finally understand is you shouldn’t expect a place to supply what it doesn’t have. For example, Tokyo has lousy Mexican food. Italian and French can be first-rate, to say nothing of tonkatsu or yakitori or the heavenly sushi from near the Fish Market.
Nonetheless, some people go on eating Mexican and even have the nerve to be disappointed, like it’s a big surprise when they’re eating mediocre Mexican for the 32nd time.
I’ve been this variety of moron for years.
It’s like the story where Nasruddin’s disciples find him crouched beneath a street light searching the road.
They ask him what’s wrong and he says, “I lost my key.”
“Where did you lose it?” they ask.
“I lost it at home,” he says.
“Then why are you looking here?”
“The light’s better here.”
There is no point being depressed because hardly anyone is chatty or flirtatious in Tokyo, because the streets do not strut with life or the temperature reaches dizzying heights without ever managing to be sultry.
For all this, there is Montreal.
Tokyo I revere for its unparalleled solitude, for the odd privacy of the most crowded place in the world, for the predictability that makes other explorations possible and not least for the damned money it supplies like a negligent father who doesn’t care what you do – but pays for it anyway.
I can be grateful for this and not make impossible demands. Make use of what is here and set to work.
When I get lazy – remind me.
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