Sometimes when I was in a melancholy mood I would hop on the train and ride the three stops down to the heart of Shinjuku. Intently listening to my headphones, I was deaf to the sudden soundless onslaught of people rushing up and down the stairs, pouring through the exits and entrances. I quickly learned to be carried along like a member of a school of fish, part of a mass but swimming with determination.
It was winter then. The station was crowded as always, and from the exit I frequented I could see up close the clocktower that usually illuminated a portion of my window back home on the twelfth floor of my building. Wearing more sweaters than I would have ever back in sunny California, I pulled my hat down over my head and my scarf around my chilled face. And then I would just sit. And watch. Somehow the ebb and flow of people was more entertaining than any movie, more comforting than the tumult of stores around me. It was an interesting way to language learn as well, catching snippets of vocabulary that I otherwise may not have learned, while in the meantime pondering and wondering upon each of the little realities that every person carried around.
Eventually the temperature would drop even lower, the neon lights simultaneously flicker on to create the illusion of a overly chromatic daylight, and I would make my way into a cafe. No pressure to leave after just a cup of coffee, and it is just me alone with my thoughts, the neon glow, and the sea of people.
