Last week I went to Tokyo for three days—a short stay considering I flew fourteen hours each way. The city was so clear that week that from my window in the Grand Hyatt hotel I could see, 60 miles West of me, Mount Fuji in stately, gleaming white. The legendary peak crowned the city with a certainty of presence that made me feel happy to look at, like I'd achieved something in identifying it. I had a companion in the mountain. Glancing at each other over the heads of the city buildings, Mt. Fuji and I shared something secret through the vast emptiness between us; a tallness, a detachedness, a constancy that busy, bustling Tokyo did not have, temporary as the city was for me (three days!), and evoking fashion as it necessarily did by association with my work. The mountain, though, that was just there, and unlike fashion, it was dependable. I was glad, in my hotel room, to know it.