In order to reach the conference of the International Society for the Study of Time in Yamaguchi, Japan, I would take a taxi from my home in the Blue Hills to the Boston airport, board a short flight to New York, claim my bag and take an airport tram from one terminal to another, where, after waiting several hours in an eerily empty first-class lounge I had finagled entrance to (my first experience of a completely unmonitored open bar, which I did not partake of owing to the rest of the journey to follow), I would board a thirteen-hour flight to Tokyo. From there, once the local subway system opened for the day, I took a train to the closest Shinkasen, or bullet train, station, where I accidentally headed straight to the narrow platform way too early instead of waiting in the waiting area and so, trapped, spent several hours walking back and forth, looking at the fashion of fellow travelers, and watching the rain through the gaps in the building (thank god for onigiri), before finally getting on the fastest bullet train to Yamaguchi, making my way outside in the now-torrential rain to the lone taxi in the queue, somehow conveying my destination to the driver, and heading off to my business hotel. I would arrive one day later on the calendar than when I left, a little over thirty-four hours’ travel time in total, though this is a calculation removed from the timeline as it includes time I never experienced, time that was lost to me though I was promised repeatedly it would be returned when I went home again.