It¡¯s 11.p.m. on a Tuesday night, and I¡¯m waiting alone in Ikebukuro for Sudki Mansour. I¡¯ve only met him once before, but tonight, he¡¯s picking me up for a drive out of Tokyo and into rural Yamanashi Prefecture.
Contact has been sporadic from the jump. Mansour says he¡¯s been busy with the akiya (abandoned home) he recently purchased, his Palestinian restaurant and a new place we¡¯re heading to out past Mount Fuji. After letting me know he¡¯s just closed his restaurant and is running late, Mansour pulls up in a bright blue Toyota GR86 sports car.
¡°It¡¯s ?20,000 for the ride,¡± Mansour says ¡ª it takes me a moment to realize he¡¯s joking, as I come to find out he almost always is.
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