The other day, just as I was thinking how I miss a little that I never randomly run into old friends or people I know here, I stepped off the train and locked eyes with a Brazilian I met late last summer. It took me a moment to register him and possibly I think him, I. We didn't speak to each other and went our separate ways, but seeing him not only reminded me of the serendipity that is everywhere in this life but also of the day I met him. 

We spent a few hours together chatting and drinking Moscow Mules in a little cabana by the beach sometime last August. The beach shanty is called The Jolly Jap and has hammocks and pillows on the floor to sit on and there are only three walls so you can watch the water. It was recommended to me by an American I met in a Mexican restaurant. I had spent the whole afternoon at the crowded beach alone--swimming, sunbathing, watching the families and also at one point, an old man skinny dip. I was sunny and salty with fresh freckles and beach hair. Neither the owner nor the Brazilian's English was great and my Japanese at that point was basically nonexistant. We tried a compromise that involved my shameful Spanish in addition to the mired Japanese and English. So that eventually there were a lot of blank spaces. But both the silence and the place was comfortable, exactly the kind of atmosphere and company you might hope to find after a lonely day at the beach. No one tried to speak when there was nothing to be said. I appreciated that. We just drank our ginger ale cocktails and turned the pages of a big photography book of world travel, each in our own  fantasy world of travel. After a while I helped the owner feed the cat named Jenny, fish flakes. She seemed far too skinny to me and I recommended he treat her to some actual fish now and again. When, for some reason after the sun had set and the moon risen the mood got incredibly melancholy, I said I had to go. It was getting late, I think this was the last day of my vacation and besides, I could see this scene getting weird, quick. I wanted to exit while the memory would maintain perfection. When I went to pay my bill the owner, who's name I wish I could remember, told me the Brazilian, who's name I don't mind not remembering, had paid it. Looking over to thank him, the Brazilian could barely return my smile, he was a little like a broken man, lost in his own darkness; deflated and used up. I could tell by now he was down and out sad. A real, legitimate kind of sad. He was looking at me, a little like I could be the young thing to save him. Sorry bud, I will never be the one but thanks for the drinks and good luck with the wife.  You should probably go home and kiss the kids. I'll bet they miss you. Before I left the owner made me accept a book on loan. It's Murakami and it wasn't until I got it home that I realized I had already read it. At any rate, I read it again. Soon, once the water is a little warmer it will be time to return to the beach at Mochimune for day long stretches. And anyway, I gotta return that book and see about Jenny the cat.