Kanazawa was just a small break between big cities. Now I’m back to what I'd got used to: rain, rain, and rain. Thank you, Tokyo.

Do you remember the last missive? What goes with rain? Ramen.

Now, put yourself in front of a steamy bowl. Sit there with me for a second. Look around. Lines of heads bent over their bowls, each alone with their thoughts, chopsticks in hand.

Bam!!

A thought hits me.

It was in front of my eyes the whole time. How blind I’ve been.

Izakayas, bars, kissa are all built to make the lone customer comfortable.

Ready-made meals too. Walk into any konbini and you can find something just for you. Do that in Europe, and everything comes in packs of at least two.

Things here are designed for one.

Now I get why I've been so at ease on my own. Back in Europe, eating alone at a restaurant still gets me strange looks.

A memory from more than ten years ago surfaces. I had just moved back to Ancona, my hometown, after four years in Rome and Milan, where I'd learnt to enjoy my own company. One evening I was having dinner by myself in my favourite Chinese restaurant when a friend texted me.

The conversation went more or less like this:

Friend: “Where are you?”

Me: “I’m at the Chinese.”

F: “With who?”

M: “By myself.”

F: “No, no, that's not good. I'll join you in a few minutes.”

And it wasn't the only time.

Do you ever go on a date with yourself? Cinema, dinner, concert. An activity you could enjoy just on your own.

Here, it's the norm.

One by one, the lone ramen eaters leave. Probably going back to their offices.

My last slurp echoes in the room. I lower my eyes. No stains on my t-shirt.

I'm ready to leave Japan. I've mastered the sacred art of twirling noodles around my chopsticks, spaghetti style.

Part of me wonders if I’m romanticising loneliness and calling it solitude. Where's the line between the two? Right now, I have no answer to that.

I grab my umbrella and slide the door open.

Thank you, Japan.

Till the next missive,

— M