One night after visiting friends, I hopped on the local bus for a ride home. At the very first stop, the other passengers — a cane-clutching obaasan and a mother with her pre-schooler — stepped off, leaving me all alone as the bus barreled through the dark.
Alone, that is, except for the driver, who sat far ahead of me in green-uniformed silence, now my personal chauffeur into the maze of west Tokyo. A recorded female voice announced place names at which we never stopped, for there was never anyone waiting to climb on board. Up front, the same names scrolled by on the announcement panel as the bus pushed onward into the night.
Me, my driver and darkness. In stretches I didn't even need to close my eyes to imagine I was not in Japan. The road curved and wound up and down tree-lined hills where, beyond the streetlights and a warm glow of houses below, the only thing observable was black night.