"Bush won. Kerry called to concede this morning (Nov. 3). Stay in Japan. I am joining the French Foreign Legion. -Walker."

Good morning, Kyoto!

Beamed from America to Japan, received through a buzzing pink cellphone with a Hello Kitty charm--that's how I got the news. The creaky hostel futon didn't like my simple, silent response: rolling onto my back and sitting up. Squeak, squeak.

This room was quiet like my grandmothers home, and despite the fact that it was shared by four strangers, it seemed to posses the same potent calming medicine as that little house in the lost hamlet of Malcom, Nebraska.

I remember the drive to Malcom, when I was younger, typically taken in the back of my parents' car, up and down an unknown road, farmland scrolling lazily, endlessly to my left and right. We cut a bath through the grass until we arrived at that mysterious spot somewhere north of Lincoln, not to near, not too far.

There isn't much farmland here.

Though the bullet train was supposed to show me the Japanese countryside, after riding for two hours at 200 m.p.h., I'm still not sure I ever left the city of Tokyo.

The density here is amazing, and though I like it, I miss the feeling provided by that emptiness that characterizes Nebraska, and so much of America, that silent almost creepy lack of sound that makes days like Halloween seem just oh, so perfectly frightening.

You can hear the wind in Nebraska.

Of course, I'm nowhere near Malcom, Nebraska, I'm in Kyoto, a city famed for its plethora of temples hidden beneath that standard, cluttered urban landscape.

The sun peeked into my room.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Oh, my cellphone. Surprise, surprise. Kyoto is full of those stupid little things.

Surprises, I mean. A half-Pakistani half-Croation globetrotting tag-along named Zashi, a Japanese girl from Chiba named Hisano, a new late night conversation partner named Megumi. All byproducts of the truly unbelievably cheap hostel Heather and I have stumbled upon.

Sitting in the dining room with the BBC on mute I type, type, type. Last night I sat in the same spot, my tongue flipping out syllables I never thought myself capable of constructing. I'm waiting for a phone call from my mom, I'm waiting for Zashi and Heather to wake up. I'm waiting for another day to begin.

Bush is president.

Though I want to be mad, I can't do anything but stare out of this third floor window and just let all feeling evaporate. I'm in Japan. I'm an expat.

For now.

Could that monk I saw last night, on the bridge about 400 meters before the temple, could that monk still be meditating? Just standing there, head tilted slightly down, staring toward the pavement, murmuring to himself as cars passed within inches of his robes. What was he thinking about?

Nothing, of course. And that's how I am right now, empty in my mind. Just doting along here in Kyoto. Push me and pull me, please, point A to point B and off to C.

This trip to Kyoto isn't what I had planned for my five day break.

This trip is defying my expectations.

Japan isn't really real.