Lost in instructions

I don't know if contradictory is an inclusive and broad enough word for what you feel in Japan.

- Kranti Sambhav

How can you experience a place guided by philosophies like wabi-sabi, mono na aware, in such a trippy, psychedelic way? What is that chemical process which can leave a residual hue of acid dream while absorbing a monochromatic and melancholic world all around? How do thousands of humans, wearing different shades of brown, beige and grey, synchronously walk, minding their businesses, trying their best not to inconvenience any living being on their way to or from their cubicles, or the nearby 7-Eleven? Silently. All of this, with neon backdrops and a soundtrack composed of the exhaust notes from different-sized engines with a permutation of valves and shapes. Is it a fantasy land for a person like me? Yes. Nobody is expecting you to speak, except for a few occasional 'arigatos' and 'sumimasens'. The walks don't need any agenda; maybe an eye contact with a Skyline driver at a red light, acknowledging my appreciation, or an empathetic look from the Cinquecento Abarth driver waiting outside a Lawson. As if he knew my nationality and sympathised with me for how that badge vanished from the Indian market. Or a chat with the GT-R driver, trying to cash in on the global fascination for the Tokyo Drift, ferrying enthusiasts to Yokohama. A group of Harley riders passing you on the highway, a bunch of Monkey bikes parked outside a ramen shop, or a full-blown exhaust on an Alto- the motoring culture of Japan overwhelms you. It's less about showing off and more about celebrating. Very much evident from the cars revving away to glory on the busy streets of Shibuya, and hardly any frowny faces. Taking calls on a metro is taboo, horns in cars are the least used feature, but everyone is surprisingly liberal with the exhaust notes.