George Strait wasn’t supposed to be in Japan, but when I push open the door to a bar called Little Texas on a cool Tokyo night, the so-called King of Country is here: hand on his hip, hand on his wide-brimmed white hat, a crooked smile tilted to the left, like a puppeteer pulled the strings unevenly. There he is on the ceiling, smiling down from a poster, there he is on a $1 bill, sheathed in plastic, pinned on the back of the bar next to a Texas A&M Forest Service patch and a bumper sticker for Fort Worth’s Martin House Brewing Company. His voice, smooth as rivers of syrup, floats down and around me, pooling at my feet.
I’ve got that Friday night fever
Sometimes a man just needs a breather
She knows I love her and I need her
And I’m no cheater
I’ve just got that Friday night fever
Glasses clink down on the wooden bar, and Strait sings on. A slim man dressed head to toe in dark denim swings through my line of sight, tipping his 10-gallon hat in acknowledgement of disrupting my reverie. A woman in a pink western shirt and cowboy boots approaches, takes my hands in hers, and cranes back her head, as if drinking in a long-lost relative.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” she cries, before drawing me into her arms and squeezing me tight.
Some of the decor inside Little Texas in Meguro, Tokyo. Courtesy of Little Texas
Texas via Tokyo
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