Whitopia.

Say it aloud, and think about it for a moment.

If you pronounce it the way I do, it comes out as "White-oh-pee-ah," which sort of sounds like a contraction of "White" and "Utopia."--of course, if you agree with that interpretation, you aren't only pronouncing like me, but you're thinking like me now, too (a dangerous prospect!).

But what would a Whitopia be, exactly? A place where only white people lived, I suppose.

The truth of Whitopia, however, is a lot less fantastic than the strange, minority-lacking land that we had imagined. Whitopia is simply a laundromat near my apartment. They are pretty good at making your close white, hence Whitopia.

The other truth about Whitopia is that I am the minority there, not the majority. But then again, I'm the minority everywhere I go here. Nothing new.

Besides Whitopia, my house is also near Highway 6--a nice four lane thoroughfare--where, today, an ambulance, sirens blaring, roared down the road, yet no one pulled over. The ambulance was, in fact, getting passed by the other cars as it sped humbly down the road, adhering to the posted speed limit.

Perhaps it wasn't such an important injury... who knows.

Highway 6 happens to lead directly to Kita-Matsudo station, and each day, many cars (and ambulances) can be seen, but so can a lonesome golfer, diligently practicing his technique each night in the alley behind his apartment--from puts to drives, he works all the forms.

And though every night he's busy slicing away in that dark alley, I wonder if he ever actually gets a chance to move from the damp cement to the greens, and really get some practice--because I've seen a lot of stuff in Japan, but never a golf course.

Perhaps those barren "green spaces" are a luxury only whitopia can afford.