The Dream Returns, As Usual, to Tokyo

Twice a week, minimum, I wake up somewhere in Tokyo. Always night in the dream, always a backstreet I half-recognize, and there’s always food—a counter with fresh fish, something I can’t name that smells exactly right. Then morning, Berlin, the specific absence of all of it. The fish most of all.

In the meantime there’s Crunchyroll, which I’ve been burning through like medication. Switch Girl is great. Nobunaga Concerto is better than it has any right to be. No Dropping Out is worth the time. None of them are substitutes. They make the longing sharper, which is its own perverse pleasure—the same reason you keep touching a bruise.

Since the Harajuku apartment is, as usual, out of budget, the Japan Festival came back to Berlin this weekend, running out of the Urania near Wittenbergplatz. Manga, J-Pop, gaming, cosplay, martial arts, kimonos, and most importantly, food: sushi, onigiri, Pocky. Fresh fish from vendors who actually know what they’re doing. Standing there with something genuinely good in my mouth, I could almost pretend the dream hadn’t ended. Not quite. But close enough for a January afternoon in Berlin.