Japan Flavoured Pepsi, mark 2

Long can be short,
Short can be long,
And the really tiny can change the world.

So yes, the rules regarding zebra crossings here (or are they pelicans? Toucans?) is to do with the lights. Most crossings in all of the cities have some sort of lights; traffic lights, pedestrian lights, even train lights. Many people are of a negative opinion about these, but they keep quiet, adhering to the "rule" with little difference. Every morning I walk through down-town Sakae, two kilometres past thousands of lights, particularly those of Christmas Illuminations, stopping at every crossroads, Sometimes it is a good day, and the green man is on my side, sometimes I become infuriated and take the subway, where I walk through the tunnels abundant with shops.
So "the rule" states that you wait for the green man, even when there is not a car in sight. But as a gaijin I am premitted this outrageous affinity. But what I do not get is their hoardes. Steadily, the crowd builds up as the road-heaves, wuntil it is seemingly about to burst. Then when the cars stop, about ten seconds before the green man decides to show his face, and his hat, he first man takes a step. Often I consider hat tehy are telepathic and can read the green man`s mind, but no. They are just experts at timing. Here, the world runs by clockwork.
Still people walk after the green man and his chirping bird friend have ceased and are flashing. There is one thing only that I know about this. It is when the pretty green girl dies.
So yes, life is truly bizzare, and seeing people on bicycles everwhere, even in the supposedly bicycle-free zones, it is different. Especcially policeman. Or they were officers, or simply stewards, as they all dress smart, and in matching uniforms.
I saw four of them, in exact succession. Each stroke ad cycle was in perfect timing, perfect synchronisation. So beautiful. Down . . . down. Past the woman, smooth betwixt the lampost and bin, a sly glance over the crossroads - luckily green-bias and empty - and the lead man carefully slides diagnally across the road, and the white lines, easing his way into Nagoya. And one by one, in equal distance, come the next  . . . four. The last, the fifth, comes seemingly from nowhere, pedalling madly, his hair in disarray. The imperfection to the perfection.
Some things are the same. Such as drink. To wake myself I go into 7-11 to get some sort of heavy caffience priority and find pepsi. Oh the days when I was adiccted . . . I search past the "nex" and "smoothy" and find "Mont Blanc". Oh, I think, a new one, named after the french mountain. I buy it, unscrew the lid and wait for he brown liquid to fill me and wake me.
But when it reaches my taste buds, I am taken aback. This is not pepsi as I know it. This one is familiar, but foreign. I do not know, it is nothing like I have ever had before.
Then I realise.
"It tastes of Japan."
They were my thought-words. Exactly.