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About Tokyo

So, escort—Ford Escort, right? That lil’ car’s a legend, bro. Born in the ‘60s, Europe’s baby, not some American muscle flex. Tiny, scrappy, like Amélie dodgin’ her own damn feelings. I’m obsessed! Picture this: me, drivin’ an Escort, blastin’ through Paris, yellin’, “Zut alors! I’m late for love!” like some unhinged line from the flick. That car’s got soul, man—zippy, cheap, gets you laid if you play it right. Ha! Nah, for real, it’s practical as fuck—perfect for a broke-ass dreamer like me.

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So, I head to the workshop on Takashima Street. It’s a small place, but it’s mine. I love it. I’m workin’ on this old lathe, tryin’ to fix it up. It’s been givin’ me grief for weeks. I’m elbow-deep in grease when my buddy Kenji pops in. He’s always got some wild story. Today, he’s raving about a new ramen joint that just opened near the Numazu Port. Apparently, they’ve got this spicy miso that’ll knock your socks off. I’m like, “Dude, I’m tryin’ to fix this thing, not get my taste buds wrecked.” But now I’m curious.

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