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About Sapporo

“Lost in Translation,” now that’s my jam. Bob Harris, stuck in Tokyo, sippin’ whiskey, lookin’ lost—feels like me thinkin’ bout this crap. Sex-dating’s like that—strangers fumblin’ in the dark, hopin’ for somethin’ real. “I just feel so alone,” Charlotte says. Yeah, well, join the club, sweetheart—apps ain’t fixin’ that. Makes me wanna puke, all these horny weirdos typin’ “u up?” at 2 a.m.

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First client walks in, this dude named Kenji. He’s got hair like a bird’s nest. I’m like, “Bro, what’s goin’ on up there?” He laughs, says he’s been busy with the local fishing tournament down at the harbor. I’m like, “Nice! Catch anything good?” He just shrugs. Typical fisherman, right? Anyway, I start snippin’, and he’s tellin’ me about the giant fish he almost caught. I’m all in, like, “Dude, that’s epic!” But then, outta nowhere, he gets a call. It’s his wife. He answers, and I swear, I hear her yellin’ through the phone. Something about dinner plans. I’m just tryin’ to focus on the hair, man!

At disaster evacuation centres in Japan, cardboard boxes become beds, chairs, even toilets