Tokyo Writers' Salon - "I don't remember"

I don't remember my Arabic. I'm getting rusty on French, and my English breaks a little more each day. I don't remember the last time a saw a Twix or the last time a magazine came to my home without being picked up in the 'Imported Magazines' section at Tower Records first.

There is a lot that I don't remember. Maybe it's for the best, as to clear out space in my head for the cache of memories concocted every day in Tokyo. Being repeatedly bitten by a male model in a club. Walking around Azabu-Juban, Moto-Azabu, and Roppongi for an hour trying to find a building whose address I didn't have, helped by a Filipina with her own interesting stories to share. Mistakenly walking into a hostess bar with my roommate then naively sitting down with the ladies for "1 drink" because certainly they wouldn't charge women for their company.

On a very basic level I don't remember anything but confusion; I certainly don't remember what it is like to not be confused, or at least to be unaware of all that I don’t know. Every day is really an adventure - a comedy of errors, really. But this daily uncertainty combined with my inclination to fully indulge my curiosity is, I think, worth far more than remembering the taste of a Sunrise biscuit; or remaining in any of my stateside habits.