An unexpected time warp

Living here is so bizarre in a way I wasn't even thinking about.

Our apartment is fairly new and modern. All the sinks stretch out on hoses. The floor is hardwood, and the A/C is built in. Our toilet has not one, but two different kinds of bidet, and neither HP nor I can tell the difference.

Super modern, right? What you'd expect in Japan.

Except being here is like being teleported back to 1962. I'm not even kidding.

You hear a lot about how Okinawa is Americanized, especially after the war. But what no one tells you is that the "americanized" bits (language excepted) look like shots straight out of Blue Hawaii.

I seriously expect to see this every day.

Tropical prints are everywhere, and hibiscus grows wild in every city, town, and roadside. Chains like A+W and Mister Donut are all over the place, resistant to their stateside collapse and thriving in this post-war time capsule.

I've heard more Elvis and the Beach Boys than I ever did sitting at a Johnny Rockets' (that is to say, near-constantly), and there are times where I swear the world is yellow-tinted and I have to rub my eyes and squint for things to turn back to normal. And somewhere, in the distance, a radio is blasting the Ronettes.

I went to a yakitori restaurant last night with Yoshio and Kiyomi, and the place was covered in 50s and 60s americana, from the labels of model planes to Crackerjack boxes and rubber chickens. Instead of curtains, they hung tropical print dresses and shirts from clotheslines between tables, the outermost of which were tatami and the inner of which were wooden picnic tables like you'd find at a beachside campsite. The corrugated sheet metal walls (also covered in retro memorabilia) were artfully torn and burned, leading up to a traditional Okinawan red terracotta ceiling that had been transplanted inside (facing inward, oddly enough, covering the outer tables like an awning) and guarded by a couple of clay Shiisa. I almost laughed out of the strange feeling in my stomach - like all of a sudden the Tardis would show up and the Doctor would pop out, apologizing for the mix-up wherein he smashed two time periods together in altogether the wrong place.

"Sorry! This entire island is pretty much my fault."

Aside from the constant fear that someone will start following me around while playing the ukelele, it's absolutely fascinating.

Know what it's like? It's like how a 1960s housewife expects her honeymoon to look. And I'm not complaining.

After all, I always said I was born in the wrong era.