Takashi
Takashi was my first boyfriend in Japan: a Hiroshima-based landscape architect, with an impressive Germanic accent when speaking English. He was patient, mature and looked extremely good in skinny jeans. I brought him a whirlwind of drama and, more practically, scabies, collected during JET orientation before I knew I had it. MountainMouth doctors spent months scratching their heads while I scratched everything else, eventually putting me on a hospital drip for a week. Takashi’s doctors identified his case rather more efficiently. He passed the clue back and mine finally discovered that I was not simply allergic to Japan. He was always too good for me. Revisit my cursed-body aftermath →
After we split up, Takashi became an even better ex-boyfriend. During my disastrous Tokyo Christmas of 2003, I fled that week’s beau du jour and sought refuge with the last one. Takashi was a grown-up. He supplied a no-strings place to crash, cooked Christmas Eve dinner and helped me catch my breath among the museums of Ueno. I promoted him to “ex-boyfriend of the century”. We resumed our friendship when I moved to Tokyo in 2007. As far as I know, he eventually settled down with a lovely Scottish man and moved to Britain. He deserved the lovely man and a quieter life than I had ever offered him. Accept Takashi’s Christmas refuge → Meet him again nearly 2 years later →