For the first time since arriving in Japan, I've experienced something that I had, prior to experiencing it, thought to be completely and inherently foreign; something that could not, under any circumstances, exist inside of any of the 23 wards of Tokyo: isolation and silence.

But, as I was walking down a dimly lit street in Fuchusha with Kyohei, on our way to his family's apartment, the two of us were suddenly enveloped in a pristine calm, and then I realized we were actually alone.

There were no other people on the street anywhere, no noises to be heard whatsoever. No car exhaust pipes pumping fumes, no motorbikes revving their engines--not even a bicycle passing by. Nothing.

"Eerie," said Kyohei, in English.

"How do you know eerie?" I asked. It seemed like a tough word; I certainly had no clue of the Japanese equivalent.

Before Kyohei could answer, though, the silence was broken just as quickly as suddenly as it had started: a man turned a corner on to our street, a child and his father came running down the opposite sidewalk, and a group of bicyclers spun their tires lackadaisically down the middle of the street. We were back in Japan--and a very nice little area of Japan, too.

Kyohei's apartment was situated in a large, incredibly clean complex that probably held more than one hundred narrow, 3 bedroom apartments just like his own. This was where Japanese people lived. All of them--not in large houses, and not in dormitories. There are no front yards. There are only immaculately cleaned albeit tiny rooms, sandwiched together, and they are what Japanese people call home.

After my shoes were off and I had placed my bare feet on the wooden floor, I was greeted by Kyohei's mother, who, of course, spoke no English whatsoever.

This was going to be an interesting little sleep over.

Moments later, though, all my anxiety flew out the window as I realized she was just as excited to meet me as I was nervous to be staying in her house; unsure of how to do all the things that seem so natural, like use their bathroom (should I put on bathroom slippers?), eat soup (spoon or chopsticks?), and how to politely turn down food (I think they never would have stopped feeding me had I consented to eat everything they had prepared).

But yes, the food. The food...

Perhaps the best meal I've ever eaten in Japan was created by Kyohei's mother: a mountain of sushi and edamame, tofu, soup, vegetables and many other strange things that I have no idea how to name. But just know, it truly was a masterpiece that I gorged myself upon.

I, of course, presented a gift to Kyohei's family, which delighted his mother who spent the next hour pouring over the photos in "Designs on the Landscape," an aerial photography book of America.

"No, I've never been to California," I said, over and over. She had incessant questions, which was ok... but it was just difficult to answer them!

Kyohei's father was more interested in teaching my archaic kanji, which was quite interesting. He showed me the kanji for "Soccer," which is no longer used, and was only instituted during World War 2 because the Japanese didn't want to use the imported American word, "Sa-ka-."

It was the first time I've ever seen a Japanese man forget Kanji. He struggled for a few minutes before writing it down the paper, completely illegibly (to me), and then instructing me in the stroke order. After learning "Soccer" he wanted to teach me even more ancient characters, but he couldn't jog his memory enough to eke out more than a few strokes.

By the end of it all, I was exhausted. We had a long Saturday planned, beginning at 7 a.m. in Shinjuku, and then heading to Asakusa.

Zzzz.

Asleep on a futon in Kyohei's narrow room, using a pillow that seemed to be filled with rocks. How peculiar.