Knocked out, it’s true, at least by way of metaphor. The huge, black storm yesterday and the subsequent downpour, the umbrellas popping up like mushrooms, the whisper of wheels on wet streets. It all adds up.
In the rain, we found god’s noodles: A little place by a canal for cold udon and a draft.
Later, pulled into Takeshimaya by the Food Ray, we purchased grilled chicken for the train ride to the mountains.
That night: Yakitori of wings, thighs, breasts, and even a whacked embryonic bird that took getting used to.