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<\/b><\/h4>\nOn day 2 in Life without David Lynch in it, I wake up to a brave new world. There is no trace of climate change, smoke or plastic; plus cars are soundless, streets immaculate, trees and bonsais blooming everywhere, while most people are perfectly and quietly bypassing me in astonishing symmetry. All except for the gentleman lying unconscious next to me like an elusive crouton in a half empty gazpacho.<\/p>\n
I crouch and check his pulse, and suddenly the whole street turns around and looks at me accusatively. There\u2019s a newsstand vendor in front of me. She is making the obnoxious X shape with her arms. He is just sleeping it off, like you just did, so don\u2019t dare touch him<\/i> she says.<\/p>\n
I look at her puzzled: where the fuck am I? It takes me one second to read the cover of the Japan Times<\/i>: Ralph Lauren convicted to life sentence<\/i>.<\/p>\n
Holy fuck, I\u2019m in Tokyo, the only metropolis in the world where you can drink yourself to death and then collapse in any given sidewalk knowing that it will be thrice neater and cleaner than most three star hotel rooms in most of the universe, not to mention the universal untouchable language: they would never dare checking your pulse, let alone your wallet or electronic devices.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m fixated on the cover of the Japan Times<\/i> like an OCD child holding onto a lollipop. Fuck me: Ralph Lauren, the Unquiet American, would not walk the streets of David\u2019s Deprived Life or Philadelphia ever again.<\/p>\n
That is to say that my retirement plan is fucked: my chances to get murdered by the hottest international assassin are thinner than noise in Japan.<\/p>\n
<\/b><\/h4>\nThere is still hope though. As the saying goes, when in Tokyo do what Tokyoites do. That is: go to your local supermarket, get caught shoplifting for an amount inferior to 3000 yen and wait for the patrol car\u2014to bring you HOME!<\/p>\n
Home is where your murderer lives, Tokyo\u2019s Fuchu prison, which is quite far away from my local supermarket, but the only reclusion centre I\u2019m eligible for as an alien.<\/p>\n
Even though I\u2019m very eager to go home, my memory is fucked since the assault, so it takes me a while to remember how I got here.<\/p>\n
I keep forgetting that life is David Lynch deprived since yesterday and I quietly mumble again my best wishes for his great beyond. Next thing, I have made up my mind.<\/p>\n
On my way to the supermarket, I stop at a crosswalk for half an hour, as you do when in Japan. During the eventful interval, I bump into one of my former Aikido colleagues in Dublin. She is less happy to see me than I\u2019m to see her, but nonetheless she assumes that I\u2019m here to attend the International Seminar of Aikido, an annual celebration that most of the intensely devoted followers\u2019 worldwide would kill to attend.<\/p>\n
I had no idea, but it comes rather handy to avoid the I\u2019m-desperately-trying to-get-into-a-very-specific-prison conversation. She says that she is on her way to register for the summit, and assumes that I\u2019m too, so I pretend that I am, yes, totally. I\u2019m quite good at it.<\/p>\n
Halfway through the walk she asks me if I\u2019d like to grab a coffee; as it turns out we are way earlier. I say sure, and we find a tiny Sicilian looking place named Angelina\u2019s. There\u2019s a Japanese woman behind the counter. She claims that she is 100 years old and the best ramen cook and coffee roaster ever born in Sicily \u2014or Japan, for that matter. I mention how humble she sounds and she says that modesty is one of her virtues. We laugh and then I have to admit it: she is the best so far.<\/p>\n\n\t\t