I dreaded waking up for the call. I was in Japan for the first time, in the Lost in Translation hotel. Why should I be held hostage to promises I’d made on the other side of the planet? I wanted to go on a solo train ride to Kyoto, like Scarlett. I wanted to sing karaoke with Bill Murray. Still in bed, I scanned the room for a fax machine, like the one Bill Murray’s wife uses to communicate with him about their home decor, thinking I could fax Noma, an old-fashioned, new-for-us way to communicate. But there was no fax machine, so I reached for the TV remote. A beautiful woman appeared, in soft focus, a bare shoulder showing, before the scene cut to panoramas of cherry blossoms and ancient temples. I locked the image in my head, lay back on the bed, and slid a hand down my pants.