Day One:

4:45 am. The first thing I notice as slip on my layers for the flight is how much weight

I’ve lost in the past month, how the jeans and the t-shirt fall slack around my body. I

cannot sleep, and haven’t been able to since Friday. I go up on the roof and watch the

sunrise. Come back down and eat some breakfast. Wait. Finally, around seven o’clock

something more than fatigue but slightly less than biological failure sets in, and I manage

to fall asleep for more than twenty minutes. But then it is time to go. The ride to the

airport is nice, quiet. Once we board our connecting flight for Narita airport I am asleep

almost immediately.

It is raining.

The first thing any New Yorker will notice about Tokyo is how quiet it is. Every public

space, no matter how large, no matter how crowded with humanity, has to it an air of

solemn purpose usually reserved for holy spaces. There is no litter. There is no dirt. It’s

as if this city is a part of nature, it’s concrete spaces jutting upward like some kind of

foliage. Maple trees and boxes overflowing with flowers sit amidst parking garages.

And within this peculiar ecosystem, every man woman and child knows his or her part. It

is a tacit contract with nature.

The rail system is as regular as a metronome, and while on it I never feel like a foreigner.

There are no stares, no pointing, no peculiar glances (all of which I was prepared for).

1
Only silence as everyone sits quietly on their mobile phones, waiting for their stop.

That’s it. We’re staying in Akasaka the first night, and on our way from the Akasaka-

Mitsuke stop we come upon the 2nd thing that immediately strikes you about Japan.

There are things to buy everywhere. Because of the lack of building regulations, shops

here can be on any floor, and inevitably they are. But everywhere, even in this relatively

quiet section of the city, I count no less than five restaurants in a single city block, ringed

by arcades, hair salons, convenience stores and arcades. In particular arcade, men in dark

business suits casually play slot machines as another man, older (perhaps their boss?)

watches them, casually puffing on a cigarette. Couples on dates casually stream past us

on their way into and out of restaurants. Only once do I notice a girl take a second glance

at me, but it is only in the way one might notice something out of place in a cupboard.

We eat traditional Japanese barbeque at this half-empty restaurant on the 2nd floor, and it

is the most delicious thing I think I have ever tasted. Plates of pork rib meat, beef rib,

beef hearts and chicken thighs-all thinly sliced and perfectly seasoned are dropped on to a

grill right on our table. We finish off the meal with fried garlic (fried in a light soybean

oil) and shitake mushrooms with a lager and huge bowl of soup. Mine comes with

fermented soybean broth and sprouts, spicy and filling. It is a meal fit for several people,

and yet it comes to only about $71 USD with tax. No tipping allowed.

Our hotel is a small boutique hotel on the border with Aoyama, and on the walk home I

spy the famous Mori Tower with its art museum on the upper level. For a moment before

I drift off to sleep, I think about Nicole, and my heart drops. I’d love to share this with

2
her. And I think about all the things we’ve said to each other. There’s no going back.

Only forward. The fool’s hope that maybe she doesn’t hate me is the only thing that

helps usher on sleep. I suppose we all take with us from a breakup the things we need to

move on, the details that help us reconcile who we are with what we did. That explains

why they’re rarely amicable.

Day Two:

For all his hard charging Ryan sleeps especially soundly, like a rock. I wake up a number

of times between 4am and 7am, stirring only when Ryan has moved enough for me to be

sure he’s not totally asleep. He laughs at me taking pictures of him as he sleeps, but I

find it necessary to document one of the few times this man is not in perpetual motion.

I am depressed this morning despite the clear sunny day, and I feel the need to explain to

Ryan why sometimes I have the thousand-yard stare. He relates to me story of him

leaving a girl named Maureen in a place called California. Her destiny, he explained,

was different from his, and he decided to let it go. She was married a year later. I ask

him how he felt about it. “Oh I was messed up and depressed for about a year, year and a

half.” he says. I consider the prospect of feeling this way for another year and my heart

sinks into my shoes. I excuse myself to get another bowl of Miso soup.

Duncan is from New Zealand. Duncan sells DNA. Duncan has a girlfriend in Boston.

Duncan has a hard time finding a connecting flight. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan. I

3
remember seeing him on our way out of the hotel to Japanese BBQ last night, but don’t

remember him being this chatty. I say hello at first out of recognition more so than

friendliness when I see him at the breakfast buffet, but later when I come back to sit

down, I see that he’s already engaged Ryan in a conversation: a conversation that Ryan is

not enjoying. He’s wearing the same clothes and jacket that he had on last night, and at

first the assessment that comes to me is that he had a wild night out, and is one of those

who dispels a hangover with tall tales. But as he talks a little more, I see it in his eyes:

the thousand-yard stare. It is the veneer that we all put up to hide our pain, yet it never

fits quite right, and loneliness usually ends up creeping out from beneath the edges.

Duncan has it, and I wonder what gave it to him. After hearing him talk about a five-

week trip in which he was on the plane for 147 hours, I realize that I don’t know. But I

do realize that he’s lonely, and desperately engaging us in conversation because he needs

a friend. I imagine him as a child without his mom, sitting there with his feet dangling

from the seat fitfully picking at his salmon and miso soup, furtively glancing at all the

people who look happy. I feel sorry for him. We talk a bit more, until he runs out of tall

tales to tell and we run out of tea to drink. We wish him well and continue on our way.

Kamakura used to be the old feudal capital of Japan in the late 13th century, and it is one

of the only places not bombed during the air raids of the Second World War. When Ryan

and I step off of the JR Line into the city’s station, there is a marked difference in the

pace. Kamakura is a popular tourist destination for Tokyoans seeking a day’s respite

from the endless city, and we see many of them-mostly school children on field trips-

negotiating the maps as we walk into the plaza surrounding the station, which has the

4
feeling of an outdoor bazaar, or perhaps the boardwalk on Venice Beach. The girls are

prettier here, more done up, but perhaps I’m generalizing because yesterday the girls on

the JR line we mostly buttoned up and returning from work. Here too I notice there are

more stares (especially from the schoolchildren), though I can’t tell whether it is due to

my skin tone or my height. I make friends with one particular boy who spies me taking a

picture of him with my telephoto lens, and decides to pose. Later, on the railway

platform, I see him waving furiously at me from across the way. I make my way over

and take a picture with him. As we walk away, I forget that I have no way to contact him

and get him the picture. But he doesn’t seem to care. Memories work best sometimes

when they’re allowed to live inside us.

The Great Buddha of Kamakura is awe-inspiring, as is the whole concept of building a

tourist attraction around such a holy place. It is no less than a religious theme park. The

Buddha is molded out of copper and used to be housed in a temple, until it was washed

away by a tsunami in the 14th century. As we visit another set of shrines high up in the

mountains, I am struck by how the different religions have all evolved similar customs

for connecting with God. In a temple halfway up a miraculous garden, there is a shrine

with candles, with monks selling prayer beads a pagoda away. I am reminded of the last

time Nicole and I went to a Catholic church, the giant St. Paul’s near Rockefeller Center.

I remember for some reason that we were snipping at each other on the way there, though

we had made up on the way back. I pay 100 yen for a candle and light it for her, asking

the creator to take her pain away and make it mine, and to bless her with happiness.

5
The largest pagoda features a golden statue of the Buddha that was commissioned 1000

years ago. Travelers drop coin into a box at the foot of a set of short stairs and pray to

Siddhartha Gautama, clapping their hands once as they chant some ancient homily. In

my earlier cynicism I might have breezed through the spectacle paying attention only to

the physical details of the place, but now I am moved. I watch as a hawk swoops low

overhead, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings, and suddenly I am at peace and I

know God is real.

The hike along the Daibatsu trail is not for the faint of heart. Connecting the ancient

temples with downtown Kamakura station, the trail is couple miles long, and in many

places ascends almost straight up. Ryan forges ahead unabated, and soon I join him after

getting a hang of the footing. It has just rained, and in places the mud forms a slick sheet

across the ground that hides rock worn smooth by years of fighting with the sky.

Halfway up the trail, we come upon an old man on his walk, slowly negotiating the trail,

but never stopping. He walks with the dignified manner of one who has refused to allow

time to take what man could not, his hands clasped behind his back and his back slightly

bowed against the begrudging hand of gravity. We leave him behind at one part of the

trail but he appears ahead of us at another, and I imagine he is our guardian angel. Each

time we see him he smiles and bows, then continues on.

The trail moves from the deep woods into residential lanes, which resemble the houses in

the hills in Berkeley. I have heard from friends that Tokyo is so safe that even in he city

center people do not lock their doors, and one such lane I walk into a man’s garage and

6
videotape it’s hidden treasure: a Black SS coupe. No one comes out of bother me or even

question why I am there, though I am almost certain someone was home at the time. I

imagine had he known I was there he might have invited me in for tea. Such is the

hospitality we’ve received since we’ve arrived. It is humbling.

On the 2nd leg of the trail we come upon a number of temples, one of which is manned by

an elder gentleman and woman and a younger boy, who’s only job it appears is to shoo

away the crows, who here are so large as to resemble eagles painted jet-black. When

they take off from a tree their wings beat the air with a whipping sound that resembles a

boomerang being thrown, their caws sounding more like the complaints of angry old

men. Their counterparts on the ground are cats, four that I could see, large and fat. They

stalk the ground and move deftly from high to low places, their eyes squinting shrewdly

in the afternoon sun. I wonder what they are after and if they ever catch it.

The lasting image of the day is a wrong turn on the Daibatsu trail, which takes us out

over a road and into the outskirts of a residential neighborhood. There I see a mother

playing with four small children, guiding them as they pick yellow flowers the color of

morning from the hillside. Ryan takes off in the direction we were supposed to be going,

but I stay for a little while and watch the scene. And suddenly it hits me that a part of me

wants a family of my own, the protective instincts inside me rising up and overtaking for

a time my desires to be the hero I see in my dreams. I remember suddenly taking the

young kid aside at the gym and teaching him how to shoot free throws, remember his

mother asking me whether I was married and then: “Well please tell me then you’re a

7
teacher.” It is not often that we are blessed to be able to trace our own steps so exactly,

remember exactly when the arc of history converged with providence so concretely inside

us that in a moment we are changed. But now I know that here on this hillside in Japan,

watching this mother play with her small children I realized I am ready to be a father.

There are certain things I must do first, so as to avoid the fate of all men who never live

out what they imagined as boys: bitterness, an acid that can kill the love a man has in his

heart for a wife, a family, for life.

The last shrine we see is carved like a bowl into a mountain, the only entrance coming

through an immense tunnel that is carved into the side of a mountain. Each shrine has a

unique purpose, and here it is prosperity, user’s being encouraged to wash their money in

wicker bowls with the water from a sacred spring, the benefits being the multiplication of

such money. I was what pocket change in yen I have, and then throw it into the prayer

box before I leave, praying the same prayer I pray every day now it seems, for my family,

for Nicole and her family, for vision and for inner peace. I pray not so much for an end

to tribulation or pain as I do for the unification of the disparate parts of my psyche.

I have not seen a single fat person since I got here. And this is very peculiar, since

Fresh fruit is very expensive in Japan. A trip to a local Japanese supermarket yields this

profound insight. A cantaloupe is $12, a package of strawberries from California $20. A

single avocado grown in Mexico is $5. I begin to wonder how all of the prepared meals

that we’ve had have been so cheap, and then I remember that we haven’t eaten anything

8
that requires fresh fruit since we’ve been here. And it has all without a doubt also been

delicious. Necessity is the mother of all invention.

On the way home we encounter a Japanese girl who works in a gift shop near the

Kamakura train station. She recognizes me and waves, having spied me earlier in the day

taking pictures as she painstakingly manicured a stretch of grass with a pair of scissors.

She was greatly entertained by this. I go in and decide to strike up a conversation, even

though her English is about as good as my Japanese. Ryan suggests that I get her digits

or ask her to come eat with us, which I do, albeit halfheartedly. ‘She’s pretty but not my

type’, I think to myself, but I remember Ryan’s comment earlier in the day about me

being judgmental, a comment with which I had to begrudgingly agree. She politely

declines our offer to eat with us as she says she has to work early in the morning, which

is just as well, since when we get home to the hotel we pass out almost immediately,

awaking only when the clock strikes 4am.

Day Three:

Odawara castle is underwhelming. The town itself seems charming enough, but the rain

dampens our spirits as we think about what could have been: the ascent of Fuji. But

already after fifteen minutes we are both soaked. Pneumonia is not a good souvenir to

bring back from vacation. When we reach the castle we find it to be mostly empty, a

small convenience store ringing a parking lot. Across the way a cage full of monkeys

9
tussling in the rain marks the entrance to what we’re told is a small zoo. And of course,

lording over the parking lot: Odawara castle.

This is the first time that I feel a sense of similarity to the US here, as a walk around the

supermarket yields the most interesting find of some sort of vacuum packed seahorse

salted for human consumption. Despite the uniqueness of the offerings, this place has the

desolate feel of a colonial theme park in Jersey, and the workers here have much the

same level of enthusiasm. We meet a group from Guam, who is led by Yumi, a cute

Japanese girl who I can tell her companions (Paul and Chris) have both come here to lay.

We take pictures and have a conversation in English before politely parting ways like old

classmates at a reunion.

Inside the castle signs in English and Japanese direct our attention to the various

implements of war, most remarkable of which are the blades, which still look sharp

enough to cut through bone even now. Not a spot of rust on them. I wonder how much

the artifacts have been touched up as we make our way through the castle interior, which

now oddly enough sports linoleum floors. As we reach the top level we find a gift shop

that specializes in samurai kitsch, staffed by an indifferent older couple that don’t take a

second look at us as we browse disinterestedly through key chains and stickers. On a

clear day from here we might be able to see Mt. Fuji, but we are told that he is an illusive

beast. We move on.

10
Food is a religion in Japan. This is the first thing I notice when Ryan and I disembark at

the Odawara station en-route to Hakone. In the midst of the gleaming behemoth of a

station, which effectively connects the JR and Odakyu lines, you can’t help but notice the

giant glowing food court near the entrance. I say food court offhandedly though, because

that doesn’t really do it justice. It has three floors and every kind of food imaginable,

most of it prepared freshly before your eyes. Smiling girls in aprons and uniforms offer

you free samples as you walk, targeting the gaijin with ruthless efficiency. After the

morning’s stop at a ramen counter in Kamakura, Ryan and I immediately gravitate

towards the familiar: a counter that serves udon and ramen with tempura. Having learned

enough Japanese to get by (shasin means picture, konichiwa=hello, domo arrigato

gozaimas=thank you very much) I decide quickly, but Ryan is having more trouble

deciding. Stuck in between a throng of travelers, he struggles to order some Korean style

ramen while his travel pack, easily the size of two large children, makes him look like a

stranded turtle. I intervene and remove the obstacle, but not before an attractive Japanese

girl steps in to help him order.

Along the way we meet a group that I decipher is Chinese because of their highly

inflected speech. Japanese is more musical and flute-like, syllabic and structured. These

guys are taller and speak with the highly animated tones I am used to on Canal Street. As

it turns out they are from Hong Kong, and as the men of the group leave one girl stays

behind to chat us up. She used to work for HSBC, but switched because the life there

was too hard. Too much work. She gets paid less now, she said, but it is worth it

because her quality of life is better. What a novel concept. She is exceedingly helpful

11
about telling us about the sights in and around Hakone, but I quickly realize it is because

she wants to sell us her Hakone Freepass, which guarantees us passage in and around

Hakone. There is one day left on the three-day pass, and she offers to sell it to us for

1,000 yen (about $10 USD). My analytical mind says no, but my gut trusts her, and so I

buy the two passes. It turns out to be a good deal.

While all the hospitality has generally been impeccable, I have noticed this gender

disparity from time to time. Namely, women (and especially Japanese women) of all

ages seem more willing to help us out than men. This thought comes to mind again as we

board the shuttle bus from Hakone station to the onsen, and as the bus fills up, a crotchety

old man starts to complain loudly about foreigners (my Japanese is very bad, but my

angry old man is flawless). I can’t say I especially blame him, since before us an Indian

family ascends the stairs onto the bus with no less than three suitcases that each must

weigh 70-80 pounds. I feel sorry for the Indian man who seems to be in charge of the

operation, as he switches breathlessly back and forth between Japanese, English and

Hindi in order to instruct a woman who looks to be his mother and a girl who looks to be

his little sister as to the best course of action to get on to the bus. As all of this unfolds I

watch as one by one all of the Japanese men present develop the same look, which is

oddly akin to storm clouds forming on the horizon. It is a gradual darkening of the brow,

the eyes squinting around the lids like a Venus fly trap. The face itself remains taut and

straight. I am reminded of Hirohito signing the declaration of surrender.

12
The Japanese understand the importance of water, and vending machines and stores alike

overflow with it. There is vitamin water, mineral water, water from the mineral springs

beneath Mt. Fuji (complete with some weird element called Vanadium) and ion-enriched

water, a concoction called Pocari sweat that tastes like a stripped down version of

Gatorade. But if these are but mere prayer meetings to water, the onsen are holy

cathedrals, descendants of the ancient hot springs that samurai and commoners alike

frequented throughout the country. In the past these onsen were said to have special

healing properties according to their location, but now they have become more of an

integral part of the health culture in Japan, as natural as perhaps a trip to the gym.

After taking off our shoes and putting down our bags, we enter into an austere locker

room that reminds me of my high school gym except, like everything else, it is

impeccably clean and well maintained if not austere. A shower room leads into an indoor

pool, a heated and pleasant preparation for the outside.

Outside, it is raining again, and, much like New York when we departed, unseasonably

cold. And one more thing. All the onsen are nude.

Shrugging off my Victorian sensibilities I walk out into the open, catching only a few

glances as I step into the first pool and experience…heaven.

It has been said that there is something primordial about man’s connection to the

elements, something that stretches back into the Jungian ether that was with us before we

13
shed our tails or tufts of fur. I believe this to be true of water, though I have never before

had the chance to test my theory, as I have either been too large to fit into the tubs in any

of my previous apartments, or too busy to learn to swim (a shame I know). But here,

among the mountains, I sit in a hot spring as cold rainwater falls down upon my head,

and I am, for the first time in as long as I can remember, at peace. Her face comes to

mind periodically, but this time I see her smiling, sleeping peacefully. Even her ghost

feels the sense of calm. I don’t so much fall asleep as I enter an alternate state, my mind

and body melting away into the mountain air. A Tupac song that I haven’t heard in years

comes to mind, and I start writing a rhyme to it. I finish it on my blackberry as I lay on

my back on a tatami mat in the relaxation room, a series of spotless flat rooms designed

for naps and stretching after the onsen baths.

I want to stay forever, or at least find a way to do this every day, but eventually Ryan is

restless and we have to leave. On the bus ride on the way back I encounter to especially

cute Japanese girls who seem not so shy about looking at me as if some sideshow

attraction, but I care not. I am too relaxed. They disappear into the mist as we descend

the stairwell into the train station. The Hakone Freepass grants us entry onto the Odakyu

“Romancecar”, an express train from Hakone to Shinjuku that is so nice I have no doubt

as to how it got it’s name. Everything in minimal and painstakingly detailed, like the

deck of the starship enterprise after a decorative makeover from an interior designer. The

train itself glides along with hardly a bump, and it is not long before I drift off into sleep

listening to “Temptations”.

14
When I awake we are already on the outskirts of Tokyo, and the city itself seems to

constrict around the tracks in dizzying vice of neon lights. On the platforms I take photos

of the passengers waiting for their trains, making my way through the beautiful interior of

the train before the train pulls into Shinjuku Station.

Shinjuku Station is one of the busiest in the world, and it is not for the faint of heart.

Even now at 9am local time, we find it harder to navigate than Times Square, the darting

lines of people thwarting any pause to figure out where exactly you’re going. Initially it

is energizing, but suddenly the feeling of being lost mounts with the fact that I’ve been

since 5am to make me dizzy. We decide to search first for lodging, finding that our first

choice, the hotel where we have a reservation for tomorrow night, is full for the night, as

are most of the other hotels in the area. A brief look past the pit of despair rising in my

stomach yields a backup plan (the sumptuously appointed internet cafes here) but Ryan

does not bite. We find another hotel a short walk from Akasaka Mitsuke Station with

vacancies, and manage to secure a tiny room for 19,000 yen ($190 yen). It is less than

ideal, but as we eat ramen for the third time today I feel happy to not be homeless. Sleep

overtakes me before I can think of what to do next.

Day Four:

Gaijin is the Japanese word for foreigner, and it’s not something you hear very much, but

it is something that you feel as you walk through the streets, a 20 pound bowling ball that

sits in the bottom of your bag and weighs you down by the end of the day. 99% of

15
Tokyo’s inhabitants are Japanese, and for all their politeness, they never let you forget it.

It is an intense feeling of alienation, the sense that no matter how hard I try I will never

be able to scale the wall that keeps from being a part of the beautiful thing that is Tokyo.

You can become a New Yorker, it seems, but you are born a citizen of Tokyo. I feel it in

the quizzical stares of small children and the departing glances of old men who never

seem to respond how many times I say “konichiwa”, adding a nod of deference as I pass.

I wonder if perhaps I bring up bad memories for them, if some other gaijin has done them

wrong. But after so many days in the comparatively friendly countryside, it is hard not to

care.

In the morning as we leave our hotel (the Hotel Monterrey-our new home for the next

couple of days) we are struck immediately by a cold rain that is reminiscent of San

Francisco, but without the biting wind that often whips off the bay. This weather is more

of a constant thickness in the air, cold moisture that lies like a sheet atop the glowing city.

Rendered inert by a tall cup of coffee, my appetite lays asleep in my stomach, stirring

only enough to grab a small snack as we board the Tokyo Metro.

Our navigation skills are improving, and the serpentine map that every local seems to

know by heart no longer confuse us as much, but we are admittedly aided by the fact that

every sign is in English as well as Kanji. When we surface to the north of central Tokyo,

the small map we carry with us guides us north across the river into Akihabara, a place

that is generally regarded as the consumer electronics capital of the world.

16
Consumerism is a religion in Japan. Even in the most sacred temple sites gift shops

selling all manner of kitsch and vending machines offering immediate gratification patrol

each corner. Here in Akihabara it is as if Canal Street has exploded, and it is not long

before the constant thickness of the precipitation in the air and the dull crush of humanity

leaves my heart leaping further into my ribcage for cover. Now being a thoroughly a

New Yorker, it is not a feeling that I can recollect without tracing back further than I’d

like to remember in order to codify it. It is nervousness, plain and simple, the sense of

standing naked in front of a captive audience. It is not that everyone is looking I realize,

but rather that I lack a role in this place, unlike the Japanese businessman in their slick

suits of the cigarette smoking smut peddlers who weave in and out of the crowds, barking

their homilies with the diction and timing of trained parrots. Here we wander around

aimlessly, and I feel constantly in the way.

Perhaps I am different now than I once was, because I know in my heart of hearts that

even a year ago I would join the streams of devoted worshippers of commerce, parting

with their duckets with the fervor of good Catholics. But here I stand on the outside,

peeking through the window in shop after shop with the tepid enthusiasm of a bookmaker

at the racetrack. On one side alley I smile as I see my computer model on sale for $225.

Four years ago I bought mine for $2,000 USD. As we wander towards food, I can’t help

but wonder where electronics go to die.

Design is a religion in Tokyo. Every building and public space, though seemingly

random in its orientation, comes together in a way that is artful, even beautiful. The

17
sunlight peeks furtively through exterior curtain walls, drawing patterns across

beautifully apportioned sidewalks. It seems arbitrary, but it is not. As we make the walk

along the river to the Tokyo dome, we enter an older part of the city, one whose earth-

toned color palette places its primary period of construction sometime in the 60’s. Here

the streets converge into ever-smaller lanes, and students with backpacks appearing along

the sidewalks like the first blossoms in spring. On our way down the river, Ryan an I

encounter a group of students sculpting and painting in a stark white room, their hands

and feverishly at work creating shapes out of the negative space. An English sign

announces this place as an ‘art gym’, and I immediately want to be a part of it. A group

of students who can’t be more than 15 notice me taking pictures of them and start to pose,

emboldening me to enter the building and perhaps attempt to get a better shot. No sooner

do I cross the threshold then that an older gentleman, I’m guessing a teacher, heads me

off at the pass, pointing me towards the office. I do not understand his words exactly, but

the look of a mother hen protecting her young is universal enough to translate. I do not

press further.

People flow down in side streets in Tokyo like water, tributaries that collect in small

pools in plazas before overflowing their banks and running into raging rivers on major

thoroughfares. This is how it feels as we approach the Tokyo Dome, which rises against

the gray sky unexpectedly like a sleeping giant with concrete legs. It is impressive not so

much though because of what it is so much so as what it isn’t: a shining monument to

man’s hubris, a shining example of man dominating nature. It is clear the Tokyo dome

was meant to be the heart of the city, it’s chambers flowing effortlessly into an

18
amusement park and shopping plaza, it’s exits like arteries that feed the city center.

Everywhere there is well-tended greenery, seasonal flowers blooming in pink around the

perimeter, creating a stark contrast against the dome’s outer embankment. Ryan and I

join a queue to buy our tickets, and within minutes have scored left field seats to see the

Yomuiri Giants play the Hiroshima Carp.

Baseball is a religion in Japan, and no shrine is more famous than the Tokyo Dome, the

home of the country’s most noteworthy team, the Yomuiri Giants. They are the Yankees

of Japan, rock stars who are revered as much for the mystique associated with their

franchise as they are for their own individual accomplishments. As we sit down a

Dominican player named Ramirez accepts gifts from a number of men in dark suits,

bowing to each one in deference before his opening act clears the stage. Then there is an

exhibition where a Giants player who goes by the name of Matsumoto hits a baseball out

to a window in the outfield no more than 10x10, where young Japanese schoolchildren

attempt to field the fly balls. I am impressed not only with how often and effortlessly

these tiny schoolchildren snag these fly balls with the nonchalance of pros, but also with

Matsumoto, who manages time after time to squeeze fly balls of differing height into this

tiny window, all without ever being in danger of going into foul territory, which lies a

mere foot away. It is a remarkable exercise in precision and control, and suddenly I

understand why Japan has won the last two World Baseball Classics.

The game moves quickly. This is not just because it is high scoring (the Giants

eventually win, 10-4) but because of the activity in the stands. When the Giants are up to

19
bat, a section of fans in the outfield bleachers performs renditions of each player’s theme

song, complete with drums and a waving of orange towels that momentarily turn the

stands into a swirl of color. Vendor girls (all of the vendors here are young girls

coincidentally) run in constant motion through the stands, some, the beer girls namely,

carrying kegs on their backs, each of which must weigh 20 pounds or more. I can’t

imagine performing such a task for 3+ hours without a rest, and somehow these tiny girls

do it with a smile.

Roppongi is the area of town most travel guides recommend for gaijin, a seedy part of

town once overrun by yakuza (they set Don Quixote’s, a large seller of random

knickknacks and kitsch on the main drag ablaze for failing to pay their financial

obligations) and drunken marines. This is the reputation I have in mind when we step out

of the train at Omote-Sando and begin walking through the chilly night. However, when

we arrive at the main drag, it is the Nigerians, not the yakuza, that first alert us to the fact

that we have entered Roppongi. They are here on every corner, on every block, in front

of every door beckoning drunken gaijin (who tonight happen to be mostly of the

British/Australian/American caveman variety) into the confines of clubs on the upper

levels, usually with some promise of seeing topless girls and overflowing drinks. It is the

kind of hard-selling that you would think is unnecessary given the overwhelming

majority of the clientele (drunken foreign men looking to lay a Japanese girl), but on this

particular night, a Friday in Tokyo, it seems that even with their considerable efforts the

majority of the clubs remain only sparsely populated. It is in odd sight. Clubs like the

Hard Rock café and Wall Street café beckon to Americans hoping for a glimpse of the

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familiar, but everything here has the feel of an adult-themed amusement park, as if each

building façade would fall over if we leaned on it.

For my part I am not ashamed to say that I am looking forward to the opportunity to flirt

with Japanese girls. What I admire on the Tokyo Metro when I see them is their

impeccable sense of style in general, their regal bearing and soft faces, youthful almost in

the extreme. It seems a cultural thing that they have all mastered as a rite of passage, a

countenance of wide-eyed vulnerability that beckons for protection even as it hints at

naughtiness. Sex in exchange for protection. It is an age-old biological mandate that

plugs into the oldest of a man’s hard wiring. And, as Ryan and I step into a place they

call Muse (for which there is a $35 cover charge upon entry-two drinks included) it is

easy to see that it is working. Here the typical light-footed dance of mating ritual gives

way to the brutal hand of expediency, gaijin everywhere making grotesquely direct

overtures to tiny Japanese girls. It is he kind of scene more germane to the college frat

parties I remember in school than an expensive club, and I didn’t get it then either. Here

in the crosswind of bad music, heavy-handed décor and alcohol, it seems neither looks

nor dancing ability nor the ability to form even a complete sentence make the slightest

difference.

Recognizing that I am out of my depth culturally speaking, I ask Ryan about the ways of

such a party environment. To which he responds simply “Just walk up to a girl, grab her

and start making out.”

Pause.

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I ask Ryan why, if this is the ease of success, why he hasn’t availed himself of the same

method (he has instead been sticking close by me like a bodyguard). He replies

something about it not being his scene, but I know that it is really because of his

emotional investment in a girl back home. I can’t fault him though-I was the same way

with Nicole.

I want to leave. I’ve wanted to since I stepped foot in the place, even before I paid my

3500 yen to enter into this Asian fetish theme park. But I know already what leaving will

mean: another night laying in bed obsessing again about my mistakes with Nicole. I have

by now made a side career out of self-flagellation. I decide against it, opting instead to

stay and try my technique. And to change my approach.

Simply put, I decide to have fun. I shed the veneer of cool (really just a cover for pain)

and the self-satisfied saunter that I’ve picked up somehow from some combination of my

Dad, Cary Grant, Denzel and James Bond and instead decide to go down to the house

floor and dance till my heart’s content. I mess with a couple who’s not really a couple

(it’s a Japanese girl who ostensibly brought her co-worker to the Muse to meet men-

exotic foreign men) and pull out some of the old dances I used to do with Nic in school,

all variations on popping and locking modified with some flourishes of improv comedy.

It works. I find that soon I am gaining the attention of more than a couple ladies, but

none of them really interest me. By now I’ve made a couple circles through the club and

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seen only one woman who I feel any attraction for, and I have lingering suspicions that

she’s a prostitute.

I forget what Nanako says to me at first to open up conversation exactly. I just notice

that she is cute and dressed more for the library than the club, her bangs and stockings a

novelty here that sets her apart. She asks questions to keep the conversation going, plays

slightly with her hair, and steps towards me. It as if she understands what I’ve gone

through in the past month, what I’m thinking and intuitively the best way to rouse me

from my haze. We dance a bit, nothing fancy, but during she takes the opportunity to

touch me liberally, occasionally doing her best to lock eyes, her gaze attempting to tractor

beam me in. We kiss. It is as if a fuse is lit. I lose track of time. Sitting in a chair, she

lifts up her dress and sits on my lap, grinding herself into my lap. Her eyes deepen a bit

as she looks over her shoulder in a way that makes me want to abandon myself. She asks

where I’m staying. I ask where she’s staying. We both answer, but there is hesitancy,

pause. I get her number and prepare to say my goodbyes, but she stays, and the last thing

I see before I walk out of the club into the sunlight is her face.

Day Five:

The observation deck of Mori Tower is so quiet and self-contained that it is easy to forget

that you’re near the top of one of the largest skyscrapers in the world, instead feeling that

as you look out over the sprawling metropolis you are enjoying a moment of solitude, a

quiet whisper shared between you and God. We check into the art museum here to see

what turn out to be some breathtaking pieces, but the truth is that it’s all art: this whole

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building, this whole city. It is if Picasso painted each child himself. I am running out of

things to take pictures of, but I find it interesting to study the faces of the locals, which

seem to all register a sort of taciturn reverence that is neither happy nor sad, nor prone to

any superfluous shows of emotion. When I first arrived I misread this as sadness and

imagined that each Tokyoan suffered some kind of private ailment of the heart. Perhaps I

was projecting.

As we enter the Roppongi Crossing exhibit of modern artists, I am transfixed by an

exhibit in which an artist creates trees painstakingly from the insides of high-end

shopping bags in the bags themselves. It is simple and hardly obscure in its meaning I

realize, but I imagine the love that went into creating something like that and I am

touched by its beauty.

I think about Nanako despite myself. A part of me realizes that even if I do figure out

how to reach her through the number she gave me, the chances of us meeting and sharing

a passionate tryst are slim. And to be honest that is not what I really want anyway. In all

honesty I want her to sweep me away, to save me from the lingering feeling that this hole

in my heart might not ever fully close. I want to merge with her on a level that is not

quite physical and not quite love, at least not quite the slow-burning love that peels away

your layers and renders you bare.

This is my secret desire, though my logical mind crushes it with brute force, replacing at

inopportune moments that heart-swelling picture with the image of Nicole sleeping with

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someone else, her back arched in orgasm. It makes my stomach turn. I check my watch.

4pm. It is like clockwork, and I start to hate the regularity with which I can predict the

daily heartbreak, starting to wonder despite myself why if I can predict its coming I can’t

prevent its return.

The streets of Aoyama are quiet, modern and seemingly enchanted, small sidewalk borne

lights stretching like fireflies down walkways between shops housed in austere modernist

buildings. We pass the Prada store, which is housed in a building that is all windows, the

glass shimmering partially translucent with all the beauty of a newly discarded chrysalis.

Ryan and I find here the BAPE store, which feels like stepping onto the observation deck

of galactic ship, its wares displayed in a way that is as much about form as function. I

promised Randy I would check in on some of this stuff, so I feel obligated to follow

through, even if personally I feel no reverence for this stuff. It all seems plain and

overpriced to me, odd pieces of fabric endowed somehow with holy meaning because of

the people who endorse it. I decide on a shirt hand-printed by Nigo himself, and in the

course of standing around waiting for it to be hand-delivered from the Harajuku store, I

cave to the hype and decide to buy myself a beanie and a tee as well. I have officially

gone full hipster. But as I step out into the chilly night, I am thankful for the hat.

From Aoyama we make our way to Shibuya, ascending from the platform of the Tokyo

Metro into a scene that borders on sheer madness. Shibuya crossing, its content little

more than a crisscrossing intersection, is jammed wall to wall with humanity, making its

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navigation not unlike swimming against a rushing tide. Ryan navigates expertly, my

comprehension of Tokyo maps having reached its upper limit a long time ago. But still I

begin to wonder if we’re lost. Block after block we walk, moving further away from the

bustle of the crossing and closer to reserved silence of the residential neighborhood.

Eventually two blocks past NHK broadcasting we come to the hotel, a tiny structure with

a shabu shabu restaurant in the basement.

Food is a religion in Japan. Having not indulged in anything more than coffee and snacks

today we instruct the kimonoed waitress (by pointing of course) that we are ordering

from the all you can eat shabu shabu menu, which entitles us to crab, thinly sliced pork

and domestic beef. There is nothing to tell us that the domestic beef is any better than the

imported, but after tasting the food here for several days, I am beginning to buy into the

culinary hubris of this tiny island nation. I imagine that the cows are raised in a time-

tested manner, fed only the finest grass and massaged daily to make their meat tender. I

don’t know quite where I get this vision from, but it amuses me as I eat enough to be full

many times over, my mind thinking only of sleep as we make our way back to the train.

On our way there a guy screams something at me while leaning out of a truck, but I don’t

understand him. It is the first time I can remember anyone even so much as raising their

voice,

On our way home we hatch a plan to go out to an English conversation café and attend

one of their weekend mixers, but sleep ambushes us and we are out before we figure out

what to do about it. It is just as well. Already I have added special significance to my

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experience with Nanako, and I am not eager to spoil it by hooking up with anyone else. I

fall asleep feeling for a time that I have found something to plug the hole on a temporary

basis, a sandbag until he levees are repaired.

Day 6:

We have done so much during the course of our short time here that neither of us has a

burning desire to do much of anything, and the breakneck pace with which we have been

tearing through sights begins to slow to more manageable crawl. Tokyo however, does

not seem ready to compromise, and as we come upon the open-air markets in Ueno the

crush of people makes it feel as busy as any midday afternoon. I search for gifts and

souvenirs for the family, but I am rebuffed at every turn by two peculiar phenomena:

1) The Japanese obsession with Americana makes it hard to find authentic Japanese

clothing that doesn’t somehow reference an American brand that we can easily

buy in New York.

2) The prices of everything seem to be inordinately high, a point that is emphasized

by my find of some beautiful hand printed shirts that reference original Japanese

style-tapestries. The price for a shirt? $96 USD. I feel physical pain at this

revelation.

Nursing my wounds, Ryan and I sit down to lunch in a small sushi restaurant that is

crowded with locals (part of Ryan’s mantra here is to choose restaurants that are crowded

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with locals-I can hardly disagree with that strategy). It can most easily be called a hole in

the wall, a place lacking in the aesthetic beauty we’ve seen all around thus far and more

about utility than form. But even then there is beauty in the details. A ring of customers

sits around a counter, two chefs working feverishly to thinly slice fresh fish and put

together sushi at a breakneck pace. After each piece is finished, they place it on a

conveyor belt that rotates around the counter space, continuously refilling the supply until

customers, like honeybees, flit out of the restaurant, paying a modest fee of 128 yen

(about $1.28 USD) per plate. I eat as much as I can, settling on a salmon roll with some

kind of horseradish and dressing on it as my favorite. All in all I eat 11 plates and walk

out of the restaurant feeling rejuvenated and thankful for a meal that, for $13.86, is

probably the best I’ve ever had in my life.

Down a side street moving back towards the strip I start to find deals more plentiful, and I

begin to wonder if this is because it is so far tucked back that few gaijin probably chance

it. I do not let it bother me either way. Watches are $20. Tees are $10-$15. I purchase a

caseload of tees and a jacket and watch for my brother and sister respectively before the

crush of people combined with the weight of the sushi in my stomach make me yearn for

greener pastures.

A short ride on the immaculate expanse of the Tokyo subway delivers us to the Harajuku

station, which borders the Harajuku section of the city, famous for yes, the Harajuku girls

that come out every weekend, but also for Yoyo Park. It is, on the surface, a park in the

tradition of city green spaces, but after taking ten steps in either direction, I come to

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realize that it is a fault line in Tokyo’s constant tussling between past and present. On

one side of entrance, a massive gate leads to a wooded walkway, looking much more like

a portal into another realm than a divider between regions. On the other side, a steady

stream of people negotiates the finely manicured perimeter of the park; their path ringed

by a collection of street performers and food carts. This is the city. Ryan and I walk in

this direction first, as I am in search of dancers that I have been told come to the park

every Sunday to show their skills. Looking at the map I expect to search for awhile to

find them, but the longer I am here I come to appreciate that all distances on these maps

are less than I am used to, things being usually much closer than we expect. Here we

enter the southern edge of the park, an area characterized by a huge asphalt expanse

marked by a series of concentric circles that form a bull’s-eye. I expect to see b-boys

getting it in to break beats, but instead my ears are greeted by the sounds of 50’s droop,

some in English, some in Japanese, and my eyes find crews of Japanese men and women

done up to the 9’s in 50’s gear, all West Side story and saddle shoes. They gyrate wildly

to the beats, doing fool splits and cartwheels, each crew taking turns moving to a song as

the others sit frozen, as if waiting backstage. It is humorous reminder of Japan’s near

constant obsession if not tacit endorsement of Americana, but its staunch refusal to buy

into its trappings.

I learn in passing later from a guidebook that the b-boy crews are probably not here

anymore, as the Tokyo Police started to crack down on the public gatherings that

characterized Sundays in Yoyogi Park. I imagine what it must have been like as I come

upon what I can only assume are the remnants of the b-boy crowd, a crew of three

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Japanese b-boys who are doing tricks with the ball that are usually reserved for the courts

at the Rucker. Whereas the movements there are smooth, almost rhythmic, here the

flourishes have a sharpness to them that is particularly Japanese, precise and angular. I

wonder something about the way our personalities inform our body language, and if a

person’s steps might not be as individual as fingerprint as we move on.

The weather contrasted with the previous day’s dampness is especially inviting, and the

park, though full of people, doesn’t seem crowded. It is a byproduct I imagine of the

shared responsibility for public spaces, and the subsequent respect that each patch of

grass commands. And yet everywhere I look every square inch is being used to

maximum benefit, each inch serving a purpose. My eye is caught particularly by a

couple reclining in the shade on a bench, their bodies pressed together like two trees

sheltering against the wind. Theirs is the agonizing togetherness of young love, tortured

and strenuous in its fervor to prove itself. Theirs is the last image I remember before we

exit the park gates.

The portal/gate that separates the public part of the park from the Meiji Jingu shrine is at

least two stories high, its permanence striking in contrast to the rest of the park’s

transience. As we make our way further into the woods on the shrouded path, the

quietude that falls over the masses allows the city to fade away into a distant memory.

The shrine itself is probably the quietest spot in Tokyo other than the emperor’s palace,

and yet after seeing the Buddha and the shrines in Kamakura it doesn’t strike me the

same way. Probably because everything seems new, like a religiously themed

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amusement park. Wood slabs cut by machines fit perfectly together, accented by gilded

seals that you can tell haven’t been beaten by centuries of storms and mankind’s follies.

In short, it is too perfect, though still beautiful. On our way back out of the park we see a

couple dressed in traditional Shinto wedding garb, their private happiness taking on a

different significance as tourists snap pictures of them. I wonder their about their story

for a moment, if they met and fell in love at firs sight or if one, probably the man, had to

make numerous overtures before she reciprocated any interest.

Fatigue renders the only definite answer.

After awhile in Tokyo the beauty of everything becomes stifling, its uniformity

disturbing, like eating a never-ending bowl of ice cream. This is the feeling I have as we

walk around Harajuku, it’s endlessly beautiful streets peddling Japanese denim, designer

condoms and designer t-shirts inhabited by a seemingly endless stream of well dressed

young men and women, the occasional elderly individual puttering by in a suit or well-

appointed sweater of some kind, ever the image of sartorial splendor. This is not New

York, nor does it try to be. This is Tokyo, and what that fully means still escapes me. It

is not unlike being on a date with a beautiful woman who is impenetrable, her wall so

complete so as to screen outsiders from viewing her emotions. I knew such a woman

once.

Tug (short for Timothy) is a guy I knew from my days as an undergrad at Harvard. I say

a guy because I knew him and was always friendly, but never really knew him that well,

31
and as well because I was a much different person then. I imagine that if myself met

myself then, they would not even be friends. He sees my facebook status about being in

Tokyo and messages me, and I find that he, since our graduation six years ago has been

traveling and studying, and has along the way picked up ten languages to varying degrees

of proficiency and managed to win himself a Fulbright. Suddenly I feel inadequate.

We spend a good deal of time walking the streets talking about the history of Tokyo and

asking Tug cultural questions we have wondered since getting here, like the thing about

no shoes and the history of the tension between Japan and mainland China. We quickly

arrive at the middle of a number of contradictions, and find ourselves soon entangled

even more than before. It brings to mind the curious position of being a gaijin: you are

both at the lowest and highest place in common society, in that you know nothing of the

social obligations upon which Japanese society is built, and yet even when you do can

choose to totally ignore them in order to get your own way. For instance, the Japanese

seem almost incapable of saying the word no, a convenient fact that can be dangerous in

the wrong hands. I am reminded of the art museum in Mori Tower today, when I and

several other gaijin took pictures in front of a beautiful piece of art, right in front of a

security guard and, further back a sign that said both in English and Japanese that this

was not allowed. For his part, the security guard whispered some profanity under his

breath, but generally repressed his anger admirably. I felt for a moment drunk with

power, but then after guilty. I am after all a man with a conscience, and I have never

subscribed to the idea of manifest destiny.

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Ryan Tug and I enjoy traditional Yakatori (Japanese BBQ) and sake of every variety I

can imagine in a place that goes to great pains to replicate the rustic dining experience,

right down to the yelling from the barbeque pit out to the tables. It is fun and intimate,

and Ryan and both marvel at both Tug’s knowledge and remarkable curiosity. He is, at

his core, someone who has not been spoiled by the world despite all he knows of it, and

you cannot help be endeared to this. We pay and wander out to Roppongi, happening

upon the same main drag that we saw on Friday night. Now it is sparsely populated, the

Nigerian hustlers stalking back and forth along the empty thoroughfares looking bored.

On our way into a bar an older woman comes up to us and offers us a massage, which we

refuse. Desperate, she offers us a happy ending for three dollars, and I see a sadness in

her eyes. I wonder what she owes and to whom. I give her a hug.

Agu (I will call him this because I cannot remember his real name) is not as easily

persuaded, and he plies us with a rapid wit and ready smile that needs no coaxing to issue

forth a ready row of white teeth. But, as an old woman said to me once “Anything that

shows that many teeth has to bite”. I choose to sit with my back to road in such a way

that it is impossible for anyone to walk behind me and pick my pocket, and yet keeps

Agu right in front of me where I can see him. He relates to us the story about him

leaving Nigeria at 17 and traveling all around the world, first to London and then later to

Tokyo, where he has lived for the last three years. I believe him, but don’t want to pay

him so we move on, visiting two other bars before circling back, prepared to go home

empty-handed. But Agu returns, persistent as ever, and we are swayed to take a peek.

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Tokyo is built largely on what Ryan informs me is a vertical retail model, which means

simply that stores and enclaves are built on top of each oher, with no access sometimes

from the ground floor. This is the case with Agu’s place, the executive club, a strip club

whose only access is from an elevator that goes up to the 6th floor. Getting off the

elevator it is nicely appointed, with two glasses of champagne waiting for us (with a

bottle in the bucket) and girls hungrily eying us as we enter the place. I am a little

suspicious (especially of the pre-poured glasses) but decide to take a seat and at least hear

the pitch, and perhaps at least have another good story to tell. But Tug turns and runs

away as soon as we enter, and I wonder if he has seen something. I follow him out,

followed by Ryan. Tug never fully explains this abrupt exit, but he doesn’t have to. He

in his infinite knowledge has smiled upon us and guided us around this increasingly cold

city, and we will not leave him behind. And so we continue on.

We catch the last train from Roppongi to Shibuya, finding ourselves a 3rd floor bar that

serves decent sake but terrible food. At this point it is about the fellowship though, and

by the time we arrive back to the hotel around 2am we are both drunk and happy. Tokyo

has been good to us, and I realize as I check my empty wallet that we have been very

good to Tokyo. I attempt to stay up all night but fall asleep writing, grabbing a brief two-

hour respite on the floor.

Day Seven:

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I awake to extreme exhaustion and an e-mail from Jessie asking me how I am doing. It is

the first sign of my problems in America coming back to me, and my heart for some

inexplicable reason is sad this morning. It has not as much to do with leaving as it does

with a localized feeling of dread that the internal movement I have been able to sustain

here will somehow evaporate upon my return to more familiar shores. I decide to ignore

the e-mail from Jessie and return to napping while Ryan goes to see the big fish market. I

delay finishing my packing for as long as possible, possibly because an underlying desire

to leave. But eventually the front desk calls and asks me when I am checking out, and I

can no longer hide. As we board the shinkansen express to Narita, I watch as the city’s

endless concrete begins to blend into rice paddies, and I nod off. If there is any maxim I

can take away from this trip, it is that sleep is the only constant. Everything else changes.

35