We began the day with strong coffee and tentative conversation. Friends on standby – there is a bond there but it hasn’t been tested it yet. We were feeling one-another out over americanos again and neither of us knew how to bring up the pot we both knew was in my bag. It was only pot. We had planned to smoke some the other night at dinner after few shots of sake, and now neither of us wanted to be the first one to say. It was me who said something eventually. I expected she had changed her mind. But after we had talked about how liberating getting older is, and how it’s liberating in a way that no one in their twenties thinks it will be, she was ready to say yes. And we smoked. Just a little. And then a little more, and then we walked and talked and ate a lunch of bulging sandwiches, not caring about talking with full mouths and neither of us needed to confirm it – that we were both high. We went to the park and sat in the sun and while we reclined on the blanket I had brought, I became entranced watching a dancer two hundred metres away, reaching up, fingers outpouring in the heat while she moved through her impossible stretches. And my friend and I talked and talked about nothing very much. A man in John-Lennon sunglasses walked his tortoise. He’d tied a balloon around it so it didn’t get lost. Another guy offered us free beer if we bought some weed, and then grabbed the toe of my bare foot as he walked past. Where are these people when you’re sober? I always wonder. They came out for us, like the sun and the conversation. I said to her, we should write a blog about the most notable person we meet each day. Yes, she said, and she asked me if I’d seen the stretching dancer.