once upon a time in tokyo, i lived in a little shack made of wood, paper and a little bit of concrete. none of the windows or doors shut properly, so the room (there was only one) was always drafty. during the winter it would get so cold i'd have to read books, write letters and work on my laptop in the bathroom on my temperature-adjustable "washlet", the warmest place in my 200 square-foot apartment. but the apartment had a certain charm, "omomuki" as they call it in japanese. i loved it.
my parents were initially baffled that i'd choose to live in such squalor rather than with them, in the suburbs, just an hour away. but i think my mother secretly came to like the place, as she'd visit quite often just to have tea, and we'd chat for hours until she'd suddenly glance at her watch and say "oh my, this apartment of yours is so old it makes me forget the time!"
