ACCOZZAGLIA

@ the Japanese consulate. I’ve been awake since 2:30am, and well, I could easily crash for forty winks. Clearly, I can tell that I’m not in my element in Chicago. It’s weeeird. I mean — it’s not the size of the region that throws me off, but rather, it’s the rhythms of the people that baffle me, really. In SF & TO, I fall into place almost immediately. Here, even though it’s only been a few hours, Chicago feels very … American. Something that I don’t really feel in me.

9:21 pm: One day. Claire & I are ripped-exhausted. Our fatigue was peppered with moments of giddiness, spells of crankiness and recoveries of second, third and fourth winds. I kind of lost track.

We are waiting — quietly — at concourse A6. The humdrum at this terminal’s terminus is peacefully muted, save for that annoying-as-fuck warning that repeats like a crow, “Caution: the moving walkway is ending.” My legs ache, as one would expect after treading for untold miles and nearly 20 hours.