Walking along the neighborhood shopping street near T’s new place yesterday, we stopped to pet a huge shaggy grey cat perched on a makeshift plywood table. At the other end of the table was an older woman, long grey hair pulled back from her face, wearing clothes that looked like they’d been worn a long time. She was drawing pictures in colored pencil.

I have a feeling she is the local character who is a touch crazy but harmless. It’s hard to tell in broken Japanese. She seemed happy to chat with us foreigners.

Turns out she’s writing and illustrating a children’s book. She gave us a plot summary and rummaged through her packrat collection of boxes and art supplies to locate a picture she wanted to show us. She sketched us a rose. I showed her my sketchbook from Paris and we traded compliments.

Despite our 15 minute conversation, we never exchanged names. But I know where to find her, as she seemed to be parked outside her own home—wedged between the fish market and the futon shop. I’ll have to go back in a few weeks and find out how her meeting with the publisher went.