After not taking a single day off this month, NOT ONE SINGLE DAY, the math is almost done. (More about that later.) We’ve even got a couple of spare days to squeak in under deadline. Today is a beautiful, sunny day and the sakura are just beginning to open, so I decided to tempt fate and take a day off. While punching things at the dojo would have been fun, my stress level has suddenly dropped and more than anything else, I just wanted to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.
So we went for a walk, which turned into more of an epic journey. My granny phone says we took 16,568 steps, which corresponds to 10.7km, which means 1548 steps per kilometer, which can be rounded off to either 1.5 or 1.6 steps per meter depending on whether you round from the 1/10 place or the 1/100 place. We left around 10:30 and got back home at 3:00, which means 4.5 hours but subtract about 20 minutes for lunch at the Daiei food court, so convert the time unit to find 250 minutes, so a speed of 66 steps/minute or 3960 steps/hour.
A contributing factor was my Jones for a roast beef sandwich for dinner and the consequent search of a myriad of supermarkets. We can extrapolate the following equation:
Daiei + Ozeki + Summit + (Tokyu x 2) + Maruetsu = tired feet
There’s a hole-in-the-wall mom-and-pop Chinese-ish restaurant in the neighborhood. It has just three tables and a few stools at the counter. Lunchtime on Saturday: The only table available was the one by the door, so we took it. I was just tucking into my bowl of noodles when the door slid open and an old guy shuffled in. He took one glance at me and his shoulders sagged, his lower lip stuck out about a mile. Mom of mom-and-pop said, “It’s OK. You can take the table at the back.” No response. He studied his toes. “Yada?” she asked, a kid word meaning “you don’t want to?” He glanced at me again and then shuffled to the table at the back, sat down, and pouted. All I could do was smile; for once this kind of reaction wasn’t because I’m a foreigner. I was in his seat.
There’s a group of neighborhood gents who spend their weekend afternoons in that restaurant idly gossiping, large frosty glasses of oolong-high and lemon sour ushering them gently into oblivion.
I felt awful. He probably spent the week looking forward to hang time with his buds, and there I was, the proverbial roadblock on the highway to heaven.
The good news is we walked past the place today and the door was open to let in the much awaited sunshine. There he was, basking in his regular seat, frosty mug in hand, grinning like a two year old in a sandbox. I hope he had forgiven me.