Unlike the blackout curtains in my bedroom back home, lately when I wake up, I see light streaming through the gap between the curtain and the window. In my drowsy state, it gently reminds me that I'm no longer home. But there's another side to this. It gives me a clearer sense of the day's framework, like the sound of temple sweeping every morning in Perfect Days.
Recently, I've had several conversations with friends about the sense of belonging. We talked about how, when you love a place, you no longer need to compare it with your hometown or anywhere else—when you simply love it, that's a kind of belonging. But this realization often only emerges after you've become a local. So what about those who've just arrived in a foreign land? How does an outsider begin to fit in?
I think it still has to start with sorting trash. Understanding the boundary between burnable and non-burnable waste, distinguishing between PET bottles and "recyclable plastic packaging and containers." After carefully studying the instructions, I suddenly got it, and that made me genuinely happy—perhaps that was the first step toward fitting in.
A few nights ago, I returned to Kichijoji and remembered the café my friend had recommended. I'd had coffee there before dinner once, and I really liked the atmosphere. Last time I visited, there was an elderly couple with their pet dog, enjoying coffee together. At dusk, people outside the window were strolling leisurely down the street. The shop sold coffee beans and café-branded clothing with "Light Up" printed on them. I could see why everyone loves Kichijoji.
Lost in these thoughts, the sky had darkened, and the streetlights were coming on. I checked my watch—half an hour until closing. I decided to get a coffee to go.
When I ordered, the staff suddenly asked me something. I didn't catch the key word, so I just said "hai." Then he pulled out a small card and carefully wrote the coffee type and date in the first box. It was a loyalty card.
Perhaps loyalty cards also represent a step toward fitting in. It suggests that I might come here ten times for coffee, collecting stamps until I earn a discount, and that discount would be like a badge celebrating my deeper connection with this community.
How many loyalty cards does it take to create a sense of belonging? Maybe one morning, when I see the sunlight streaming through the curtain and hear the sweeping sounds, and I no longer think about how well the curtains at home block out the light—that's when I'll be able to extend the feeling of home to another city.