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The sun wasn’t out today either, but at least it wasn’t raining.

My feet led me to Kokubunji Station, where I was to switch trains to go “somewhere else” (I hadn’t decided which stations I’d get off at yet). On Kokubunji Station’s Takao-bound platform (which is in the opposite direction of Tokyo and Shinjuku Station), there was a guy with a camera in his hand. This fellow was slightly overweight, had a serious skin problem, seemed lonely but seemed fixated on the passing trains: He was another “train-otaku” (a subculture here in Japan in which some people would spend endless hours, staring at the passing trains and taking their pictures. As symbolic as it may sound, this phenomenon seems to be more of a social disease than anything else). Nevertheless, I took this fellow as a sign. I took the train he was photographing to see what happens next.

While I was on the train, I noticed that there was a big group of physically/mentally challenged young people being chaperoned by a few teachers: they seemed happy to be on a trip. I envied how someone could be excited about a cloudy Saturday afternoon in July.

Here is my method of choosing where to get off (and I often do this in times of boredom, melancholy, curiosity etc.): I look out the train I’m on and as soon as I notice something I didn’t notice in any of the previous stations, I’d get off. Simple enough, wouldn’t you think? (I did this while I was studying in Iowa, too, only driving my car to the most desolate locations that had interesting names. Yes, I’ve even been to a town in Iowa named Persia).

When the train I was on arrived at Tachikawa station, I looked out the window and saw five young women, huddled in a circle smoking at the designating smoking-area on the platform. I was surprised by the sight because all the platforms I was on earlier today had no smoking area. I decided this was reason enough for me to get off. (Disclaimer: the author of this site does not support the act of smoking - or any activity that is hazardous to one’s health for that matter)

Walking in Tachikawa Station, there was a flood of faces and bodies flowing against - and yet with - me. The crowd was made of the usual people people you would expect to see in any crowded train station on any given weekend: Many happy people. Many unhappy people. Many beautiful people. Many not so beautiful people. Many young people. Even more elderly people.

In Tachikawa Station, there is a big mall. I had wanted to give the book store and record shop on the 8th floor a visit for quite a while. When I arrived at the 8th floor, I headed to the “non-Japanese Novels” section to look for something intelligible to read. After much dodging and ducking the crazy book-buying crowd, I found myself in front of the measly non-Japanese literature section (which just means books written in English and nothing else). I was actually looking for a few Orhan Pamuk books, but found none. There was a huge untouched stack of the new Harry Potter book; probably because of the majority of Japanese Harry Potter fans are waiting for the Japanese translation of the book. I finally settled on Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace (It is one of those books I always wanted to read but never got around to doing so. Oh the shame. Oh the horror.) Despite the book being over 1000 pages and clearly printed, the price was very reasonable - all the better to me. When I pulled out the book from shelf, I caught a glimpse of a little girl behind me staring at the 1000-page gap left by the space the book in my hand used to occupy. Oh well. Before going for a late lunch, I picked up three CDs; all of which are by women - Tori Amos, Suzanne Vega and Souad Massi (the latter’s CD is what I am listening to as I type up this entry).

“Benihana” sounded like an interesting name for a restaurant. That is where I decided to go to. The food wasn’t particularly special (although it was beautifully presented). To my left was a young couple:
The girl was looking at travel tour brochures with GUAM and HAWAII written on them in bright pink text.
The guy was looking at another young girl sitting alone near a window in the far side of the restaurant.
The couple exchanged no words during their “meal”; a scene I’ve seen (and probably participated in) on a few occasions in my life here in Tokyo.

A character that really caught my attention, though, was an older woman who came to the same restaurant and sat in the table across from mine. She had a black eye but had no wedding band on her left ring finger; I couldn’t make any connections - maybe she just had an accident and I’m over-reading. Her cotton-white hair was tied in a neat bun. She wore an odd shirt that gave me an impression purple flowers violently thrown all over the place. The shirt she wore had long sleeves (strange for this time of year, as it is the middle of the Summer). As for what was “missing” (which is just as important as the present details): no jewellery, make-up or companions. On the chair where someone was supposed to be seated; she placed her purple plastic handbag. She took a long, long time to decide on the oyster spaghetti she finally had after making the waitress run back and forth half a dozen times. While waiting for her food, and while eating, she pulled out a big book filled with Sudoku puzzles (she scribbled in the missing digits with a purple pen.) She wore no glasses while solving the puzzle, and this seemed to highlight the black eye she had. This is when I stopped looking at her, fearing that the “novelty” would wear off if I would notice any more details.

At this point, after having something to eat and drink, I pulled out War and Peace and looked at the small blurb on the author’s life. Tolstoy was apparently happily married, and had 13 children with his wife. Later in life, he became more religious and started turning towards giving up all his possessions to live simply (even though he was born into royalty). Direct quoting from the book I have in my hands right now, his biography reads:

After a quarrel with his wife he fled home secretly one night to seek refuge in a monastery. He became ill during this dramatic flight and died at the small railway station of Astapovo in 1910.

“Funny,” I thought to myself, “both Tolstoy and I seemed to be stuck in train stations at that moment.”

That was when I headed home.