Station Platform Japan. Photo credit to MØller Thomsen.
After the performance we—and thousands of others—are half running down the station steps. A thunderous clatter of shoes on stone.
My Canadian colleague and I—the only sandy blonds in this evening’s crowd—are a few steps behind our host. He never looks back to see whether we are keeping up.
Jostled on every side I am terrified that we will lose our host in the crowd. He has the tickets. We have no idea which platform, track or car we are headed for. No way of catching up if we lose him.
Like a herd of wild beasts, we’re merely running. Like everybody else. There nothing we can do except press forward, no clue where we are or where we’re going. If we stop they’ll likely knock us down.
I no longer know which black head belongs to our host. Half-panicked, I grab the bottom of Bruce’s jacket. There’s no room in this crush to take his arm, but I’m not going to lose him as well. Feeling my tug he turns and laughs.
“Once we get on that train, you realize you could get groped,” he hollers.
“Ha!” I shoot back. “It may have to last me a long time.”