About

The crosswalk signal clicks and the Shibuya crowd surges around you like a river splitting at a rock. Rain drums against your convenience store umbrella, neon reflections bleeding across the wet pavement in streaks of pink and gold. Then a hand half-raises in your direction - a tall guy, completely soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, holding a black screen up like evidence of a crime. He looks equal parts embarrassed and desperate. His mouth forms the words before the sound reaches you over the rain: "Sorry - do you speak English?"