The sight of Yokohama Terminal excited many. To wear off our over joy, we were given 30 minutes before we should put on our serious face. Decision-making should not be laid upon an anxious individual. Longing for more of FOA, curating on deck under drizzles seemed like a good idea for a moment. It only took 10 seconds before the controller couldn't tolerate my talking. The broadcasting was calm, but in the primitive alien sounds, I sensed hostility. Trying to overshadow the broadcasting in my heightened voice, the rain had to intervene. Pouring down like animals, people ran to get sheltered. Us architects, of course, sat back to watch the show. Laughed as if we are detached from the scene, despite our drenched shivering bodies.
It is no longer funny when water raced people down the narrow unbarred ramps. People started to slip on wooden panels held in too perfectly. A school girl lost her balance, failed to seize the strangly angled railing, only to find herself slammed onto the glass divider that refused to open any more than a conventional door. The railing additions clearly provided nothing more in functionality, as it did in aesthetics. Light tubes on the railing jerkily turned on. The whole scene felt like a decrepit christmas.
The waves rose as high as us. Our assignment were smudged, but the discussion went on. Like the ensemble in Titanic, performing till the end, giving their life to music. We, too, had to stand by design, even if it set us apart and put us in trouble. Finally the broadcast gave up pretending. Revealing her true identity as a fellow anxiety patient, her voice sped up. In a somewhat familiar language, she specifically yelled at us to leave. The discussion was forgotten, but the day ended with a happy group purchase of "I <3 Yokohama" sweat shirts.