Not the beauty of Japan, not the ice cream
Not the beauty of Japan, not the ice cream So Richard, Hawaiian shirt fully deployed, is in Japan with his parents, who are the kind of people who treat sightseeing like an extreme sport—lots of sighing, a lot of careful step-counting. They wander up to a tourist site, somewhere that looks impressive if you squint, and there’s an ice cream truck. Yes, an ice cream truck. In Japan. And yes, it’s playing music. Not “background ambience” music, but that cheery, jingling thing that makes you instantly regret every life choice that led to standing in front of a truck at 3:45 p.m. on a Wednesday. Richard, whose Japanese is functional enough to cause mild admiration and moderate confusion, decides: why not? Why not combine his questionable dance moves with a tiny cultural experiment? He squints, bows slightly, sticks out a hand like he’s about to sell stocks instead of asking someone to dance, and says, “Hey, this is some nice music. You wanna dance? Nice cream girl.” And then, miracle o...