ABSTRACT
One Sunday in 1993, I took a train to Ishikawa Station, half an hour away from where I was living in Yokohama. Walking westward from the station, I entered Chinatown and ate in a restaurant which was remarkable for its sordid interior as much as for its savory noodles. Walking eastward amidst Chinese-language signs and speakers, I explored Kotobuki-chō, one of the most notorious doyagai (slum) in Japan. Beyond shabby buildings and sleeping drunks—the inescapable sight and stench of poverty—I passed people talking animatedly in various Asian tongues, including Tagalog and Thai. Passing a Korean restaurant, I was overwhelmed by the aroma of Korean food as well as by loud conversations in Korean.
