Sea legs

I love airports. I don't love planes, but I do love being early for them. It forces a stretch of open, unscheduled time.

What to do with it? Sit, read, drink water, call your grandma, listen to the cacophony of languages bouncing off the walls. Wander through duty-free and talk yourself out of that Clinique travel pack, because it's a stupid thing to carry around for two weeks. Be wise, save your money for cool Asian stuff.

The flight was long and painless. Three movies, The New Yorker, Vogue, a couple of novels, minimal chitchat with my neighbor. A glimpse of sleep. Then, during the golden hour and a light spring rain, an unusually long shuttle ride. 20 hours door to door, all told.

But where did Sunday go? Is it out in the ether somewhere? You had one, I didn't. Some people think God and man and love are the great mysteries of the universe, but I think it's time zones.

We took a stroll around Dad and Ann's neighborhood this morning. It looks and feels like a compact English suburb, with much smaller people walking pocket-size dogs. Everyone is engaged in constant conversational and physical ritual.

About one person out of 10 wears a surgical mask on the street. Why?, I asked. Because they're sick, and don't want to make anyone else sick. Logical and civilized, if a bit Orwellian. Dad talks about the non-Fascist regimen of daily life in Japan—carefully and consciously executed, but not dictated. Behavior is entirely ingrained.

This afternoon, we'll see a castle, a temple, and some lovely trees.