At my great amazement, a total stranger is standing right before my eyes as large as life when I come back to the world from the excursion of my childhood. No sooner than he recognizes that I begin noticing his presence, he starts the ball rolling by catechizing, “Excuse me, I hope I’m not disturbing you. Are you Japanese by chance?”
His face is shining benevolence with a traditional Mexican mustache. I am startled by his sudden appearance and helplessly captivated by his honorable mustache. I cannot keep my eyes off his sovereign mustache and response by looking at it dizzyingly, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”
“It’s extremely rare to meet Japanese in Mexico City. May I ask what you’re doing in a strange land?”
“I’m writing a book,” I reply laconically.
He is tickling his mustache and says delightedly, “Hm… it’s very interesting. It’s extremely rare to meet a writer in Mexico City to boot. What a heavenly coincidence! I am, too, a humble servant of God – I am a poet. May I have a seat next to you?”
“Go ahead. Please have a seat,” I say, smiling.
He sits down on the bench, takes his cap off, caresses his hair backwardly, put it back on his head, and inquiries, “Where do you live?”
“I’m living in Condensa with a Mexican friend, who has been offering me to stay at his apartment for a gratis, so that I can focus on writing. Other Mexican friends are helping me as well.”
“You don’t say!” he exclaims, his mustache seems upward.