"There are vintage cards on the second floor," a purple kimono tells me. I clear the hardwood staircase and walk down a short corridor. The wall is covered in karuta.

An overweight man hands out clipboards. Surveys. I approach, and there's a slight recoil as he doesn't give me the clipboard.

"Can I have a survey?" I ask. I'm the only one that does. The only one that ever does.
"Of course. Excuse me. I'm so sorry." He hands me the survey.

Down another corridor, there's a window overlooking the rock garden down below. Glass cases filled with karuta provide a barrier between a sprawling 120-tatami mat hall. And I used to live in a six-tatami mat apartment, I think to myself.

A purple kimono is explaining the cards to that Japanese woman who's then explaining it to that British woman. I lean forward to get a good look and wonder if gamers got excited when new editions came out or gossiped with their friends about them. I mean, this is our heritage. This is what gaming what to people hundreds of years ago. This is what—

"Excuse me."

It the elderly lady and her husband with a glass eye are standing there with a blue clipboard.

"Yes?"
"We don't have to write our names on this, do we?"
"No. We don't."

I show her my survey. At the bottom, I wrote, "The DS Navi was really fun" in jumbo-sized Japanese. The woman thanks me, mentions it's time to go and shuffles off. Her husband one-step behind.

T is for Tradition [Kotaku]

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