Bundled in a thick charcoal grey wool jacket and face shielded behind a red muffler, you pull down the bill of your newsboy cap as another blast of winter air jets through the city streets. Flakes of snow cling to fabric and to whatever strands of hair that isn't tucked away. You continue to briskly step around the evening traffic, the clicking of your boots' heals joining the shuffle of other pedestrians. You notice that the edges of the sidewalk are frosted in a light coating of snow, as you try to avoid stumbling into a couple who just stepped out the adjacent shop. Your head bobs down and hurried apologies fall from your lips. Pivoting and walking double time down the street to further distance yourself from your near collision, your hands clutch at your computer bag to keep it from swinging wildly into someone else. The crowd around you thins out a bit when you exit the small plaza of stores and finally allow yourself to relax again.

The street begins to incline and you inwardly sigh as your legs burn in reminder of the hill you had this morning jovially trotted down. A buss stop sign stands tauntingly near the hill's crest. You couldn't get an apartment in the residential district closest to the studio, so you had to settle for the one a few towns over. For now you were stuck waiting for the buss under the glow of a street light with a handful of other people, which according to the timetable you printed out this morning, would be coming in the next six minutes or so. You entertain the idea of killing time by checking again for any available housing in the area on your phone, as if by chance someone had moved out while you were going over the design drafts with your department's head all day.

You were coming into the project midway through the first quarter of the year of an estimated three to four year development cycle, the later being the max your work visa would allow before you would have to renew it. And while you were ninety percent sure you were not going to be applying for a permanent residency in Japan just yet, closer living quarters to the studio would still make days like this a little easier to bear.

Sure, what you do could easily be done from your apartment with a steady wifi connection, but you don't want to contribute to the stereotype of the lackadaisical American while everyone else is putting their nose to the grind in a cubicle on-site.

The hum of an engine and groaning of breaks snaps you out of your reverie, and you instinctively dig through your coat pocket for your buss pass. After double checking the buss number on your sheet, you wait for the locals to embark before you do. One graying man notices you and politely gestures for you to step up before he does. You awkwardly bow and try to say your thanks in what you hope is clear enough pronunciation. Once on the buss you tap your pass on the scanner and scoot towards the back. Enough seats are available that you don't feel guilty for taking one yourself, clutching your computer bag to your chest like a life preserver. Hopefully with time you will loosen up on these return trips, but for now you just have to deal with commuter anxiety.

The engine roars and break gears hiss as the buss winds around the hill before threading back into a major road.

Your finger tips thaw from the chill thanks to the combined heat of the buss itself and press of bodies as more people climb on at the next stop. It's going to be an estimated twenty to forty minute ride, depending on the traffic, so you unzip the outside pocket of your bag for your ear buds and mp3 player. A soothing beat of a neo-jazz band you discovered on an airline playlist during one of your long international flights helps you to lean back in your seat as the buss rolled on, rocking slightly with every stop it made. You self-consciously resisted the urge to tap your foot in time with the bass drum, not needing to feel the extra weight of curious stares.

The edges of your eyes prick with tears and you quickly draw your muffler further up your face to obscure a large yawn that bubbles up, a toll from your body still adjusting to a vastly different time table. Also, sitting in front of a computer screen for most of the day isn't helping you stay awake. You push up your glasses to rub the bridge between you eyes before ducking behind your computer bag as another yawn silently rips your mouth open again. Okay, maybe smooth jazz wasn't the best thing to play right now.

You scroll over onto a playlist of pop songs and upbeat videogame music for the duration of you trip as you stare out the window. The streets you passed this morning are nearly unrecognizable while lit up at night. You plug in your apartment's address into Google Maps to assure yourself that you are indeed on the right bus's route even though you've already checked and double checked when you got on. And yes, the shrinking blue line confirms that you are slowly nearing where you need to get off, the continuing dotted line indicating you will need to continue your journey on foot.

As you put down your phone you notice the snow outside is starting to fall in denser amounts. Christmas had already past weeks ago, but that fact does not prevent the weather from turning the city white anyways.

Coincidently the happy jingle of a winter level theme begins to play as you disembark.

You were back in the middle of a bustling weekday evening as people went in and out of the various shops and restaurants around you, many with umbrellas shielding them from the snow. Part of you was torn between finding a café to duck into and buying something warm to eat and drink, or just avoid the trouble of standing in line until you can stutter out your request while others wait on you to piece together a coherent sentence.

…

You choose to go back to the apartment and settle for Cup Noodles. Cup Noodles can't judge you for your vocabulary or lack thereof.

As you weave through the crowds you keep your eyes peeled for the landmarks that clued you in to your current location, not wanting to keep your nose buried in your phone. You passed a convenience store, a public bathhouse, and a couple brightly lit up and active gambling halls. Soon enough, you came up to the river that you have a view of from your apartment.

The river was shallow, partly frozen, and seemed to divide the residency in half with one side looking more modern while the other still had some older more traditional looking houses sprinkled along with some newer sleeker looking structures, and some buildings that just looked outright odd. Like that out of place looking… was it a pharmacy? Lab? You couldn't really tell.

You remember looking at older images of this area while you were scoping out for open apartments. It's amazing, and a little sad in a way, how different a neighborhood could change over the course of twenty odd years. The dated photos of a quiet suburban town had barely any resemblance to the streets you currently walked.

Your mind went back to your own hometown and how it changed over the years: some ways small, some big. You did come from one of the more densely populated cities in your state, so this urban atmosphere didn't bother you as much as it might have for others.

A voice from over the river caught your attention.

A small food cart stood illuminated near the bridge down by the riverside opposite from where you were walking. You could faintly make out the steam radiating from the stand's contents. The attendant was singing a song you could barely make out as a sales pitch for their food, or maybe they were just praising their skill out loud not caring who heard. You had to give them credit for dedication in spite of the weather conditions. Most people will probably be opting for indoor dining tonight regardless, but…

That does mean that there will be no lines to hold up.

And your curiosity and hunger are bolstering you to investigate.

Tentatively you cross the bridge, keeping an eye out for anyone that might show up out of the blue. Instead it remains quiet aside from the crunching of snow under your boots. A short man, that has such a baby face and youthful tone of voice that you can't really tell how old he is just by observation alone (but you assume old enough to run a food cart) waves you over to sit down as you approach the riverside he set shop on.

"Hurry up and sit down, a bowl of my oden will do you wonders on a cold night like this!" The cook says as he retrieves sets of plates and glasses behind the wagon. He is dressed in a thick brown coat and a navy blue knit cap with matching scarf and fingerless mittens.

"Thank you very much, sir" you hurriedly breathe out before sitting across from him, thankfully the awning above is keeping out most of the snow. As you lean forward to inspect the spread you are struck with the smell of the variety of foodstuffs stewing in simmering broth. You swallow thickly behind your muffler, stomach growling in anticipation.

"Eh?" He passes you a plate, bowl, utensils, and a skewer with a smirk, "No need to be so formal in this weather. Go on, help yourself, barou."

You nod your head, not quite able to decipher what he called you, but from his smirk and overall friendly demeanor you assume its some kind of slang to get you to loosen up. You remove your ear buds and stuff them into your pocket just as a shopkeeper's theme started to play. Shrugging off your bag, you lay it between the cart and your seat. All the while, you are trying to remember how exactly are you supposed to eat oden?

You binge-watched on Japanese travel vlogs during the weeks leading up to your flight and you remember oden being the topic of one of them. You vaguely remember that it's supposed to be some kind of kebab…? There was even a diagram involved that showed how the end product was supposed to look like.

You assemble what you hope was the correct combination of food into a wonky arrow shape. You are so concentrated on your task that you missed the cook's bemused expression until your eyes flick over to him to glean a hint on whether or not you were doing it right.

"Is this…" your vision darts between the skewered oden and the chef, "correct?"

"The hell-barou-damn it!?" The small man leans in on his likewise small hands, to scrutinize you, "What? Is this the first time you've ever had oden?"

"…Yes." You reply owlishly with a nod.

"EEEHHH?!"

You are then treated to the most in-depth exposition of oden and all of its elements that you could ever hope to experience…

….

You also probably just had one of the best meals you could ever hope to get from a street cart during a snowfall.

End Chapter 1