Flight inbound
The Japan-bound flight was rather unexpected. This wasn’t just a plane—it was a metal whale with its own interior hallway. Coming from cramped domestic flights where you can high-five every passenger while boarding, this felt like upgrading from a bicycle to a spaceship.
As I shuffled to my seat, I caught a glimpse of business class—those lie-flat pods looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Note to self: New life goal unlocked.
The cabin crew moved with effortless grace, their striped neckties adding a touch of vintage charm. (Though I’ll admit, the masks hiding their faces killed my fantasy of being served by someone straight out of a Shogun casting call.)
Murakami at 30,000 Feet
I’d wisely packed Men Without Women for the 8.5-hour journey. Murakami’s stories—lonely men unraveling after love abandons them—hit differently when you’re suspended over an ocean. His writing lays bare a brutal truth:
Some people carve permanent rooms in your heart. Even after they leave, the walls remain—empty but standing.
It’s bleak, hypnotic, and impossible to put down. By the time we descended, I’d devoured all ofthe book, my mind buzzing with Tokyo alleyways and melancholy jazz bars. Nothing stokes anticipation for Japan like Murakami’s version of it—where the mundane brushes against the surreal.
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