Abstract
As I unpacked my bags, I assigned the strange feeling in my head-a sense of isolation fastened on my brain like a lump of ice-to the unnatural ease of my passage. It had taken only thirteen hours to cross twelve time zones and thousands of miles of indiscernible land and water; according to the clocks, I arrived in Tokyo three hours after I had left NewYork. Even finding a hotel room seemed unnaturally easy. My guidebooks explained that cheap Japanese hotels prefer not to deal with gaijin (foreigners), so I'd asked a friendly face at the airport tourism desk for assistance. The room she procured for me turned out to be smaller than a college dorm room, and about as well furnished. There was a bed and a tiny desk unit crowded into one tight corner; the television tinted everything a celestial blue. I took comfort in the vaguely familiar images: game shows and panel discussions, seriousfaced newscasters, sumo wrestling tournaments. Out at Shinjuku Station, the nearest train stop, everyone had studiously ignored me and my obvious struggle to figure out where I was going. In the room, I felt safe. Soon as I could, this foreigner slept a few hours. When I awoke in the evening, the heavenly blue light of the television had turned cold; all traces of home were gone. My headache had subsided, and I realized with a certain smiling fear that I was now a dark American cipher in the Japanese empire of signs.
Published Version
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