moderately sized trouble in little kyoto

i walked around the streets of kyoto today for three hours desperately trying to find an ATM that would accept my wells fargo card after i blew 5000￥last night at a disco (thats 5,000 pennies for those of you who are counting!). newsflash to me, apparently most machines in the country only accept japanese cards to screw helpless foreigners who didnt plan ahead. by three pm i was sunburned, exhausted, and ready to make my way back to the hostel and tell them i:d have to do dishes for the night or give them a massage with a "happy ending" to pay for my room (my room is actually, i shit you not, a sleeping bag on the floor with 8 other people side by side in a line, and this costs 20 dollars a night), as a last ditch effort i walked into a 7-11, thinking they might, just might, have an international machine (AMPM here does not have one, does not give cash back, and sells hot udon noodles at 4 in the morning,　hurray). and thats when i saw her. a blond haired, rosy cheeked white girl, donning a faded 7-11 apron and crouched on the floor, placing shampoo bottles onto the shelf. a fresh faced little annie, escaped from her ancestral home in shopshire or dublin or topeka, toiling away under an evil japanese step mother until one day she can sail home and rejoin her people, all the wiser for having stared the land of 24 hour cyber cafes and condom vending machines in the face. so im figuring, heres someone who can finally help my desperate ass when all of a sudden i had a terrifying thought - "maybe this girl doesn:t speak a lick of english." i figure, california must have thousands of asian girls who couldnt order their way in an asian restaurant out of a rice paper bag, let alone converse with one of their own in the "native tongue." maybe this girl was born and raised her entire life in japan - an american "nell," if you will, who could only communicate with me in bizarre animal like moans and rapid bows. of course, it turned out she spoke beautiful english after all - probably british or australian. she directed me to an enormous department store up the road which hides international ATM machines on the 7th floor, where i silently thanked the dear lord for another safe day of traveling in my dangerous, unplanned, half assed sort of way. but i still cant help but think to myself, what if. maybe youre out there somewhere, my little japanese white girl. crying out for your latino jewish american hero, donning a german passport and synthetic tighty whities from REI. just maybe...