I’ve paused at a surprisingly lively kissaten named Only on the backstreets of north Asakusa to draft today’s morning pages. Moments ago, a man walked in, left exact change for his coffee and toast on the till, took a seat, and was served without a word—true locality.

Other locals—vociferous senior residents—manoeuvre in and out, parking mobility scooters outside or sliding zimmer frames into gaps between tables. Among them stand a few wheeled suitcases and a baby stroller, belongings of non-Japanese patrons likely staying at hotels near Sensō-ji.

It is quite the kerfuffle, but a spirited matron manages it cheerfully, as her husband behind the counter keeps the siphon coffee circulating. I rarely take my tablet out in a kissa to write, but the mood here signals “anything goes.” Let's begin.