World and word

I had left sleepy Kate at our ryookan to embark on a casual night stroll around Golden Gai on the other side of the city, but its famed cosy bars felt like somewhere I needed to be with a friend. I recalled a line from a guidebook that insisted I go to the New York Bar at the Park Hyatt. I impulsively made it my mission, but not because of the film. If I was going to have a drink by myself somewhere I had to make it count. I walked intuitively.
The neon had tapered off and I couldn’t see the familiar blue light of any convenience stores. It felt like highway territory now. I found myself at a homeless shelter where sleeping bags had spreadsheet ordering and tiny plastic bags of belongings were like neatly placed dumplings.
I stood beneath the overpass and watched a group of friendly dark silhouettes laugh with one another as they strode across the quiet highway, one molecular link in the Tokyo matrix.
I approached a young couple who expressed silent concern for my solitude. They ushered me to where a taxi might appear and she rang up a map on her phone. Polite Japanese conversation skills evaded me in the circumstances. We waited, smiling in silence. The taxi arrived and the couple opened their wallets. Mortified, I declined, bowing low, thanking the highest of thankyous as I tried to sit gracefully in the taxi.
I tried to disguise feelings of displacement with posture as I waited for my $25 cocktail at the New York bar. I relished in the acoustics of the perfectly shaped ice cubes as they tinkled on the sides of the heavy set tumbler. It sounded as expensive as it was. I meditated over the expansive city fifty-two stories below. Sydney looked like Lego comparatively. I noticed a figure in the corner of my eye, questions in tow. He slowly leant over as I looked at him, a classily tipsy young businessman. What are you doing in Japan? You saw this bar in a movie? Is Lost in Translation a popular movie in Australia?
I didn’t really know the answers to these questions, and took my time in answering–to be understood and to blend into the ambience of lazy luxury.
“I wanted to see the view before I leave tomorrow.” I hadn’t in fact remembered much of the film, let alone that scene. The idea had just come to me while walking. His friend apologised and suggested I be left alone, but I hadn’t yet asked him about himself. “My father sells mosquito coils to Australia,” he said. We both laughed. It didn’t matter whether it was the truth or not. I was making a friend.