Nagusami / 40

One thing I appreciate about Tokyo is that there are no extra friends. Every acquaintance is important. I can't afford neglect.

In California one might say: “Oh, we can’t really be friends—I’m vegan, she’s ovo-lacto.” Or: “My Buddhism is Zen, he’s Kagyu Kadampa.”

Whereas in Tokyo there’s only the delighted shock of recognition: “You drink beer! Ohmigod! I drink beer!”

Vegetarians are driven to befriend carnivores, even though it means they must subsist some evenings on nothing but green soybeans. Swedes and Texans swap accents. Driven to new heights of recklessness, Americans start learning languages.

Irritating people—such as myself—are nonetheless retained as friends. Quirks and compulsions pose no bar. There’s time to chat with the Jehovah’s Witnesses, to flirt with the Mormons. Some people even strike it up with Republicans.

Gratitude expands to fill the space dug out by loneliness; we learn to practice conservation of the human.

Friendship fed by shared relief. Here at last: a face that doesn’t slam shut at the sight of me.