I’ll be honest — it would be a lot easier to write about a bad day in Tokyo than a good one.

After two years, The Big T and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms. If we were roommates, I don’t think we’d be speaking to each other right now. We probably wouldn’t even be taking each other’s phone messages.

Aah, Tokyo.

How you never fail to disappoint.

Your rent is expensive, your citizens rude, your public transportation packed with Kobolds wielding +1 Briefcases of Smacking Me on the Way Out. You are brash and abrasive, modern and yet painfully low-tech — my Suica card can pay for my train fare, bus fare, and a beer at the convenience store when I can’t take any more of your fuckery, yet the neighbors down the street keep their dingy washing machine connected to a garden hose outside their apartment.

And as for hospitality, your former Minister of Land，Infrastructure，Transport and Tourism resigned after claiming that Japan was ethnically homogeneous and its people didn’t like foreigners. Yes, this was the guy in charge of tourism.

Frankly, it gives me a sense of pleasure to see us turning the tide on you, Tokyo; to see this outmoded sakoku mentality turned on its head. I work in an area with a high concentration of foreign laborers, and like members of Project Mayhem, we have infiltrated your offices, your restaurants, your convenience stores… All your Lawson are belong to us.

Aah, Tokyo.

It may come as a shock, but even a rampant complainer like me has been able to make friends here. Yet Tokyo is such a sprawl, such a loose confederate of isolated pocket cities that the simple act of meeting up requires an insulting amount of phoning and planning and text messaging. Because God forbid we should, you know, be located less than an hour and a half and three transfers away and actually able to drop by one another’s houses.

Put simply: Tokyo, you kind of suck.

And yet…

Your people, while rude as hell, don’t stare at me like I have a third arm growing out of my head. On most days, vendors assume I actually can speak Japanese rather than I can’t. If I’m in the mood for salsa, tortillas and refried beans — which would have entailed a 45-minute train ride, or been completely unavailable, in my previous haunts — all it takes is a short bike ride down the street. Your liquor stores let me buy some of my favorite beers, off-the-wall brews from England and Belgium and Ceylon that would be impossible to find in my hometown back in the U.S. Yet here they are, just a short walk away.

On most days, Tokyo, you royally piss me off.

But sometimes, when I’m taking a walk around the back alleys of Azabu, or having a beer and soaking in the laid-back, retro feel of Yurakucho… Sometimes when I’m meeting up with friends and making new ones at a wonderfully craptastic bar in Ikebukuro… Sometimes when I’m in Roppongi and an apparently homeless fellow walking down the street and smacking bushes with a long stick turns to me and in extremely well accented English says, “Hi, how are you?” …

Sometimes Tokyo, in spite of your best efforts, I find myself liking you.

If only people would stop throwing themselves in front of the trains.

Once again, it is the most dreaded kind of Pointless Meeting Day — the company-wide meeting, in which The Big Boss outlines the company strategy for the next fiscal quarter. Mercifully, it has been shortened this time around from three hours to two, but it’s still excruciatingly mind-numbing. Estelle and Mariela, the Glitter Twins, have spent most of it passing notes back and forth, and No-Nonsense HR Lady has spent most of it asleep. You’ve caught yourself nodding off a few times as well, but right now your eyes are full forward.

The Gap, your immediate supervisor, is giving a de-motivational speech to the troops, and he is clearly nervous speaking in front of a crowd. You enjoy watching him squirm as he attempts to point out how dire the current financial situation is, doing so via endless permutations of the word 危機, or “crisis.”

“The situation is critical,” he states, voice shaking slightly. “It’s a crisis, and we’re aware of the crisis-ness.”

The meeting runs 10 minutes late as The Big Boss steps up to give a PowerPoint presentation on how sailboat racing relates to company strategy, and when the lights finally come up, people hastily make for the door. The only good thing about company-wide meetings is that they are followed by a buffet and two hours of open bar, and your coworkers are eager to get their drink on.

For some reason, you’re absolutely starved. And you need meat, dammit.

You enter the next room and head to the buffet table, immediately attacking the roast beef. To your right, Estelle of the Glitter Twins has paused, her eyes wide at the amount of meat you’re piling on your plate.

“Stress,” you say, smiling. She laughs loudly.

“Naru hodo,” she replies, which means something like, “That makes sense.”

You choose a table and begin digging into your meat, pausing only to toss back the first of many bottles of Asahi Super Dry. Gradually, a small group of people clusters around your table.

“So, John Turningpin,” Scrappy Pup pipes up in that strange, two-octaves-too-high voice of his that always sounds like he’s spent the evening screaming at the neighbors, “What do you listen to on those headphones of yours?” Your workplace, with its cast of characters that includes The Lingerer and Harley Man, tends to get obnoxiously loud, and you often wear headphones while working to drown out the din.

“Heavy metal,” you reply. “The angrier the better.”

“Heavy metal?! Really? For example?” You sigh inwardly. There’s no way he will know any of these bands.

“Right now, Slipknot’s new album. But also Killswitch Engage, Haste the Day… Mudvayne. Helmet of course.”

“Is that like Led Zeppelin?” The Time Warp asks suddenly. You have to stop yourself from visibly starting.

“Uh, these bands are a bit newer. And louder.”

“Ah…”

“I don’t know any of those bands!” Scrappy Pup exclaims. “You should talk to Kewpie.” He turns, calls out to someone at the buffet table behind him.

“Hey, Kewpie! John Turningpin listens to heavy metal!”

At this, an extremely short, very cute young girl comes rushing over to your table. She flashes everyone a smile. Kewpie works in another division of the company, so while you’ve waved at each other and exchanged pleasantries, you’ve never actually talked. You note that she has only two items on her plate, a wedge of lasagna and a slice of cake. Both are roughly the same size.

“Heavy metal?” she asks, still smiling. “What bands?”

“Right now, Slipknot’s new album…” you begin, launching into the spiel again.

“Oh, really? I like their first album the most.”

You stop in mid-sentence, look down at the grinning, pixie-like creature before you.

“You listen to Slipknot?”

“Yeah! I love that stuff!”

Before you know it, the two of you are engaging in a rapid-fire exchange of band names, laughing when encountering common likes and giving descriptions when finding something new. It doesn’t take long for Scrappy Pup and The Time Warp to lose interest and wander off somewhere.

“Actually though,” you say, coming up for breath after a couple minutes of frenzied band comparisons, “I’ve been listening to more death metal lately. Usually in the mornings. Riding these stupid cramped trains really pisses me off.”

“Ugh, I know. Just getting to work in the morning is such a chore! And you need an iPod or something on the trains now, too. All these people with their headphones blaring jan-jara-jan,” Kewpie says, using the onomatopoeia for jangly, poppy music.

“Stupid J-Pop,” you say.

“I know. I need more…HNGH! HNGH!”

Suddenly, Kewpie has taken a step back from the table and begun furiously headbanging. Not merely headbanging: Imagine five-foot-five of sweetly unassuming Japanese secretary wildly swinging her head Cliff Burton-style, her short hair whipping crazily about. In a room full of business executives. For a good five seconds.

When she’s finished, she steps back to the table and flashes you a wide grin.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “What was that again?”

She looks at you a moment, frowns.

And then takes a step backward and resumes headbanging.

Rock.