Nature or Nurture

On the way to work this morning, I was part of a crowd waiting to cross one of Osaka's main thoroughfares when a full-dress Harley rumbled politely by. The type with the hard saddlebags, dual BarcaLounger reclining seats, full climate control, and quite possibly autopilot for all I know.

Not one of those loud, straight-pipe hairy biker machines, no, this had big mufflers on it that silenced all but the earthquake subsonics of the big V-Twin.

And all the women at the crosswalk continued to look down at their smartphones, while every bearer of the sacred Y-chromosome, from the geriatric with two canes to the nattily-dressed 60 year old to the defeated middle-aged sararimen in their cheap polyester suits to the construction workers to the gaijin to the schoolboys paused in mid-clowning to the little boy holding his grandmother's hand to the baby in the sling, every one them, every. last. one's head tracked as that magnificent contraption of inefficient American iron, leather, and steel rolled its way down the Midosuji Boulevard.