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I’d be strollin, hair all poofed up, mutterin, “Hmm… he’s not my lover,” like in the movie, but swap “lover” for “pimp”—ha! Imagine me sidesteppin some sleazy dude, “Oh no ya don’t, buster!” Prolly get all weepy too, thinkin bout how she’s got no Mr. Chow to sweep her off her feet. That movie’s all bout what ain’t said, right? But here, it’s loud—catcalls, hagglin over prices, no mystery, just cold hard cash.

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First stop, I hit up the local market on Kōen-dōri. You know, the one with all the fresh fish and weird snacks? I’m strolling through, minding my own biz, when I spot this giant tuna. Like, HUGE. I’m talking about a fish that could probably take me in a fight. I snap a pic, and this old dude next to me starts yelling about how it’s the best tuna in Japan. I’m like, “Cool, man, but I’m not eating a fish that could’ve been my pet.”

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