an identity crisis and a typhoon

a reminder to have your cake, and eat it too

I’m in an old house turned bar, tucked neatly into a residential backstreet of Omotesando.

The wait staff wear suits. People talk softly. There is jazz music, obviously. Two slices of fresh plum on a tiny white plate placed next to each drink. The glassware would be ugly if it weren’t so intentional. I am hyper aware of the sound of my voice. This is life in Tokyo, I think. You wipe your hands with oshibori, a hot, wet towel and you fold it neatly, place it to the side. I catch myself using it to wipe every single stray drop of condensation that escapes from the edge of my glass. A customer walks in our direction. I shift my bag closer to the edge of my body, as if the flesh of my hip could partially absorb it. From an individualist society to a collectivist, indeed.

So tell me about your identity crisis.

Ah, but I’m still self obsessed, it would seem.

I look at the man beside me in shock.

I told you about that?