I. LSD
a trip in Japan
It begins with a sprained ankle.
The bass is thumping and our cheeks are red, bellies buzzing with the fuzzy warmth of gas station sake. The bouncer peers at our faces, examines our passports at arms length, then waves us into the dark Kyoto nightclub with a shrug.
Ready to begin the night, we grab our drinks and make our way to the dance floor. But suddenly K stumbles off an edge and nearly disappears into a sea of knees and elbows. We grab her and carry her to the bathroom; in the dim neon light of a handicap stall, we try to assess the damage.
Not too hot, K says, gingerly touching her swollen ankle.
She slips her foot out of her shoe. Sensing the night is over, I pour the rest of my drink down my throat.
E is in the corner of the stall, eyeing a festival poster.
I walk over and read it with her.
CASH CASH
TCHAMI b2b MALAA
AFROJACK
ZEDD
E begins to google the details. We head back to the hostel and K grabs some ice for her foot.
Good news, E says, tomorrow’s the last day.
But bad news— it’s in Tokyo, 300 miles away.
We both look at K. She pokes her foot, then looks back at us.
When I wake up I don’t know where I am.
We are rumbling through an inky black darkness. The air tastes like metal, and for a moment I panic.
But then I see K and E around me, the other passengers swaying back and forth, and I slowly register that I’m on a train.
Suddenly the entire cabin floods with light and all around us, buildings shoot up into the sky. We are gliding through a city, hurtling past skyscrapers, the mirrored windows so close I can see my reflection flickering past, hair in all directions, eyes squinted against the midday sun.
And then I remember. The bathroom poster. The festival. We bought our tickets last night and woke up at 5am to catch the earliest Shinkansen to Tokyo.
We’re running a bit late though, and we’re still in our pajamas, so once we get to the station, we start running everywhere. To the luggage check to drop off our backpacks, through the first clothing store we can find, and then back out, in full festival attire, to the train platform.
We get back on the train — now looking deranged among the other (far more plainly dressed) commuters. E and I are dabbing at each other’s cheek glitter, blowing on each other’s false lashes, while K tugs at her ankle, all wrapped up in tape.
Soon the festival grounds come into view, a gleaming manmade island marooned from the mainland.
I pull out a pack of gum and unwrap the foil. Carefully, I take out 3 little tabs of paper, covered in swirling green and orange. Kept safe all the way from sun-drenched Los Angeles. Ripping them apart along the tiny perforations, I palm one each to E and K.
As the train barrels onward, we exchange foolish grins and slide them under our tongues. Like candy.