After spending the day being lost in Tokyo and loving it, I returned to my hotel after finally finding MUJI. After resting for awhile, I left for another adventure, this time to Yokohama. I set out with low expectations, but high hopes.

I stopped the first person I saw. It was an unsuspecting 16-year-old girl, who walked about half a mile out of her way to help me buy my train tickets. She was slightly plump, with a round, kind face, and told me she was still in high school. When I asked her what she planned to study in college, she struggled to find words in English. “Lawyer!” she said triumphantly a few long seconds later. I inquired what kind of lawyer, and she replied simply, “Children,” and nodded sharply to punctuate her statement.

Once I had tickets in hand, the girl walked me to the electronic turnstiles, and turned about-face to me, signifying her work here was done. I thanked her several times, bowing my upper-body ever so slightly towards her with each repetition of gratitude. I fumbled with my unwieldy bag to pull out a business card before I walked through. I said sincerely, “If you ever come to America, please let me know,” and her eyes lit up in surprise and delight as she slowly ran her fingers over the thick card stock, carefully examining the fine print.

A train was waiting at the platform, so I stopped a young, well-dressed guy to find out if it was the correct train. Showing him my ticket and pointing at the train, I asked, “This one?” He replied affirmatively in fluent, only-ever-so-slightly accented English, and for a passing moment, I felt very small and silly.

I was relieved to find a seat on the train, and I sat with my head resting to the side against one of the poles. A few minutes later the doors closed and the train started moving. I was staring intently down at my ticket, memorizing the characters, and waiting for them to show up on the screen, when a guy sat down next to me. He sees me studying the ticket, and tells me Yokohama is 13 stops away.

The right characters flashed up on the screen, and I jump up and out. Following instructions, I find some a big escalator and go up them. At the top, I know immediately that I’m not in the right place. There are some shady looking guys standing in the shadows of the corner, hawking brochures of some sort. I innocently ask them where I might find the Disney store where I’m supposed to be meeting my friends.  They point me in a direction, and I walk down an alley in that direction.

Coming out on the other end, there is an enormous lot, filled with rows and rows of taxis parked ten deep, all with their lights on, ready and waiting. The picture is just too good to miss, and I jump on a nearby ledge, and start playing with the shot through my viewfinder.

The outside world ceases to exist as I fiddle with focus points, adjust the exposure, and determine depth-of-field. A shallow man walks by and says, “Excuse me?” followed by something sarcastic in Japanese. His colleagues laugh. I turn around, and he delivers the punchline: “Nice view.” But he’s not talking about the scene I’m capturing. I turn back around without further acknowledging him, and go back to the task at hand. Deciding that I need a wide-angle lens instead, I am in the middle of balancing on this ledge and juggling my heavy camera and two heavy lenses, when another man stops near me.

In fast, broken English he sings out, “Excuse me, ex-coo-sahh me, are you lost?” I open my mouth to reply, but I don’t have an answer. I know I’m lost, but this fact doesn’t concern me in the least. I know I’ll get where I’m going. Eventually.

The persistent man asks again, “Are you loss-taaa? Do you need help?” I pause before hesitantly agreeing, that yes, technically, I am indeed lost. “Where are you going?” When I answer, he just stands there, scratching at the thinning hair on his head in confusion. He starts asking me about Queens, Queens Square, Queens Mall, and I shrug, nonplussed. He indicates my destination is at a different station, and he tells me the name, which is long, multi-syllabic, and starts with an M. I thank him, tell him I will take the train there, and turn away to start fumbling with my camera again, still determined to get my picture.

But the man isn’t reassured. He stays rooted to the ground behind the ledge, deeply concerned that I am completely not concerned about being lost. I start to suspect that he has Tourettes, because even though his English is passable, he beings to interject bursts of incomprehensible Japanese in the middle of sentences and sometimes in the middle of words. He insists that I must go back to the train station where I came from, and explain that I got off at the wrong stop. He is now very emphatic about the fact I’m at the wrong stop, trying very hard to convey the fact I am wrong and this stop is wrong. I assume he’s trying to tell me how to get back in without buying another ticket, so in a moment of sensibility, I reluctantly lower my camera from its poised position and ask him nicely if he could help me with this, since he speaks Japanese and I, obviously, do not.

His reaction is strange, and he startles me by waving his hands and quickly backing a few steps away from me. “Oh, no, no, noooo, I cannot do that, cannot accompany you.” I thank him, again, more firmly this time, and turn around, again, to finish taking the damn picture. He stands for a little while, watching me, unsure of what to do with this lost girl who is completely, inconceivably unconcerned with being lost.

He stays until i jump off the ledge and start walking towards the station. He walks off in the other direction, seemingly satisfied that I am finally going to do something about this being lost business. I think he’s gone his way, but a few seconds later, I hear the stochastic sound of dress shoes on pavement, as he runs back up to me, holding out a magazine in front of him, as an offering of, well, I’m not sure what. I look at it blankly, and my arms stay by my side. “I’s in English language. For you.” I take it him, thank him for the last time, and go along my way. This time, he doesn’t move until he ensures that I’ve gone back into the station to find my way, like any sane person would do when they’re lost.

When i finally do arrive where I am supposed to be, I see the “big escalator” they told me about. This escalator is so large and so long, that the children of the mother who is standing behind me actually sit down on the moving steps, making themselves comfortable as they wait patiently, tiredly to reach the top.

Though I’ve arrived at my destination, I can’t seem to find my friends. So I step outside out onto the balcony, which overlooks the waterfront and a collection of small, old fashioned, brightly neon-lit carnival rides. I find another ledge, nimbly hop onto it, and begin taking pictures. Completely content to be exactly where I am at that exact moment in time.