To the Seven-11, grey-jumpsuited-out, my two wheels spinnin' slow, blingin' beneath the late night moonlight; bicycle seat low, head cocked slightly to the side, pedalling the pedal that a man pedals when he's feeling on top.

Yeah, it's gangta. Yeah, it's the life I live.

Pay for my nori-tama and melon-pan with 30 ten-yen coins and scoot back to the base, nothin' much on my mind... the evening, the breeze, the way my Champion brand sweatsuit wicks the sweat from my skin...

...And then, suddenly, my ridiculous gangster-grocery-getting fantasy is interrupted by a memory of something even more bizarre...

Takayuki stood there at the bottom of the steps, holding a fake rose in his hand--one he had received from a GAP sales person just moments earlier as part of an advertising campaign.

"Will you marry me," he said to her, in the most beautifully broken English these ears have ever heard.

He proceeded to present her with the flower, which was about as real as his desire to become engaged to someone he couldn't communicate with.

Regardless, it was one of the greatest first introductions ever, probably in the history of the world.

It was when Takayuki met Sara, and it was at the Southeast gate of Shinjuku station, the busiest station in the world. The station that I seem to always be going to or coming from. That station that once was so intimidating, and now is so welcoming. The station where the homeless sleep, the drunk puke and the commuters commute.

And after so many train rides, coming or going, it still boggles my mind when I realize the seat next to me is empty, and there are 20 people standing in the train car.

Just what the hell is going on here?

Is it because people just want to stand?

Is it because they are getting off at the next stop?

Is it, as my dad might suggest, because I smell?

Or is it for a different reason. Like the girl who rushed onto the train at Ikebukuro: her eyes frantically darting everywhere searching for that elusive seat and finally spotting it directly to my right only to sigh and resign herself to standing--leaving that plush, comfortable cushion completely vacant.

The change in her body language after spotting the seat and then spotting me, a foreigner, was just lovely. It made my body smile.

It said, "Oh, god, I guess I can stand, then. If that's how it's going to be."

She wasn't the only one standing, either, but that seat, however, that one-of-a-kind seat: empty, and directly next to a big ole' foreigner, just couldn't seem to attract anybody.

Two stops later though, a pleasant old woman decided to brave the ferocious dreadlocked foreigner and sit down.

I didn't bite her (but I thought about it).

Trains are really the greatest.

Trains are people places, and you have nothing but time to stare at them all, smell them all, and depending on the hour, get more than your fair share of touching/being touched by them.

I like riding the Sobu-sen home at night, blasting Duran-Duran in headphones much too large for my head, while trying to spot Japanese people who look like my American friends.

So far I've spotted an uncanny Billy DeFrain and about 15 Dana Meiers, though it could just be a similar taste in clothing that's fooling me.

Either way.

I'm riding my bike back from the Seven-11 now, trying the newest of about 25 Kit-Kat flavors that have been introduced in the past 24-hours.

Today's flavor is yogurt.

It tastes about like you'd expect it to--which is about half as good as yesterday's cafe-latte flavor tasted.

But I eat it.

I eat it and I watch my TV.

Tonight on "Ainori," O-se finally hooked up with Bukuro. It almost brought a tear to my eye. They flew home from Egypt to Japan together. Cute.

I'm watching reality TV in Japan and liking it.

...

What the hell's happening to me?

Am I really wearing a Champion sweatsuit, eating a yogurt Kit-Kat and watching a reality tv show called "Car Pool"? At the same time??

It's the life I live.