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About Nagoya

Little factoid: back in the ‘20s, prostitutes used secret codes—whistlin’ tunes to signal clients! Ain’t that nuts? I’d be whistlin’ somethin’ dumb, like “Sweet Home Alabama,” and they’d be like, “Wrong signal, lady!” Ha! I’d laugh, but inside I’d be pissed—why’s this so tricky? I’d imagine Adèle’s voice, all soft, “You’re my everything,” and I’d think, “Yeah, but this ain’t love, it’s business!”

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After a few hours of bustin’ my butt, I finally get a break. I head to the park near Obu Station. It’s a nice spot, with cherry blossoms and all that jazz. I plop down on a bench, and guess what? I see a couple of old dudes playin’ shogi. They’re so into it, it’s like a battle of wits. I’m just munchin’ on my onigiri, watchin’ them go at it.

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