Japan: Day 13

Disclaimer: I was not in Japan for a year. I was there for 17 days, from September 1st through the 18th of 2008. I understand that most of the people who enjoyed this blog ceased to care about eight months ago, when I basically gave up on it. So this is mostly for me; I'd like to be able to read about this trip when I'm older.

I finished each of the remaining days of the blog before posting this. Everything is 100% done, formatted, and ready to publish. I'm going to post once a day for the next three days. I sincerely hope you enjoy the blog, regardless of how long it took me to complete it.

When I awoke the next morning, my first impulse was to panic. I had slept until nearly noon, and I was supposed to meet PanoRaMa in Tokyo in just a few hours. I sprinted to the bathroom, reeking of sake, and tried to brush the cheap booze and dehydrated morning breath from my teeth. I showered, hurled dirty clothes and books into my backpack, and trudged towards the train station. Having no cell phone, I couldn't just call Kevin and tell him I was going to be a few minutes late. I needed to get my ass on the road.

Thanks to the Nozomi Super Express (nozomi, ironically enough, means "hope" or "wish" in Japanese), I arrived in Tokyo with fifteen minutes to spare. I raced out of the train station, hopped in a taxi, and asked the driver to take me to the statue of Hachikō at Shibuya Station. Hachikō was a dog who, at the end of every work day, greeted his master at Shibuya Station. His master, a professor, commuted to campus. One day, the professor suffered a fatal stroke and never returned home from work. Hachikō returned to Shibuya Station to wait for his master every evening for ten years. This degree of loyalty was not lost on the Japanese, who erected a statue in Hachikō's honor shortly before his death.

Just outside the station in Tokyo.

25 minutes later, having traveled a distance of 4.7 miles at an average speed of 11 miles per hour, I arrived at Shibuya Station. The ride was more enjoyable than it sounds. Although we spent the majority of our time together at a full stop, the taxi driver knew a bit of English and pointed out various landmarks to me. "Emperor," he said, pointing to the palace with pride. "Emperor." I nodded fervently, wanting to appear appreciative. The ride became less enjoyable when I had to pay the driver $50 for his services. I made a mental note to stick to the subway in the future.

Kevin, being of Taiwanese descent, had instructed me to "look for [his] friend, Joe, the black guy." And indeed, I would have had a hard time picking Kevin out of the sea of Japanese. Joe, with his bright yellow shirt, was easier to spot. "How have you been getting around without knowing any Japanese?" Joe asked.

"It hasn't been a big deal," I said. "I just smile and try to look helpless."

"Yeah," Kevin said, "it must be a little easier for you, because you're white. People speak Japanese to me and then look at me like I'm retarded when I can't say anything back. No one expects anything out of you."

"Exactly!" I laughed.

Wow.

Tokyo is entertainment. Neon lights, pachinko parlors, arcades, shopping, bars, restaurants -- as long as you have money in your pocket, there is no excuse for being bored. The city has a phenomenal energy, a palpable pulse that stems from 12 million people sharing 800 square miles of earth. After a brief stop at an arcade, Kevin told me that we were going to Sunshine City. "Is that an open-air mall or something?" I asked.

"No, it's completely indoors. I'd never thought about that, actually," he laughed.

"So there's no view of the sky... in Sunshine City. What is it, anyway?"

Nice.

Kevin won one of those hideous things and carried it around for the rest of the night.

Victory!

Sunshine City was a massive structure containing 60 floors of entertainment and office space. Without Kevin and Joe to guide me, I would have almost certainly gotten lost. We wandered down escalators and through sliding doors until I was so disoriented that, even using gravity as a reference point, I could hardly have pointed up. Kevin told me there were rumors about some vendors spending their entire lives within the structure, never once leaving. Even though he was probably joking, I believed him.

After dumplings, ice cream, and some time spent acquiring stuffed animals on the abundant UFO catchers, we decided to brave the Sunshine City haunted house. As lame as the experience sounds, it was hilarious. Before we entered, a Japanese man in formal attire gave us a very long, involved speech about how we were, apparently, supposed to solve the mystery of the haunted house. We did not understand a word of it. He gestured, referenced a laminated instruction sheet, took our pulses, and finally handed us two objects that we would need in order to uncover clues. One of the objects was a wooden charm that was supposed to keep us from harm while we were inside. I recently spoke with Kevin in an effort to figure out what the other object was.

Andy: What did they give us at the haunted house?
Andy: A ghoul head or something that lit up when you put it on those circles?
Kevin: LOL
Kevin: it was like a cat
Kevin: or something
Kevin: wasnt it an owl?
Kevin: i thought u wrote it down
Andy: I don't remember. I had that useless-ass piece of wood.
Kevin: LOL

Whatever it was, the other object had practical value. Throughout the haunted house, there were small, dimly-lit circles. Placing the object on top of those circles would activate a film, a sound clip, or worst of all, a change in lighting. It was our job to put aside our fear—assumedly by holding aloft our wooden charm—and make note of whatever Japanese characters appeared on the wall, through a looking glass, or the like. At the end of the haunted house, we were asked to solve a riddle using the clues we had gathered. Not having any idea what these clues meant, or even what the riddle was, we blindly stabbed at the answers to multiple-choice questions until the proprietor took pity on us and showed us the solution. He then took our pulses again, printing off tiny receipts for us. "Your heart... very strong," he said, handing me a receipt that had my initial and current heart rates on it, along with an A grade, indicating that my heart rate had risen very little during the harrowing experience.

"D?" Joe cried, incredulous.

It would be impossible to describe all of our activities that day—and not because of any deficiencies in my notes or memory. Tokyo defies description. It possesses a degree of sensory overlord unlike anything I have ever experienced. Animated neon lights, jostling from the omnipresent crowds, the endless mixture of big city sounds set to whatever music a particular establishment is blaring, the scent of exhaust and good food—I could write a novel in which I did nothing but describe the setting as a character walked through the city. If I spoke Japanese, I could probably extend it to a trilogy. All I can say that is Kevin, Joe, and I eventually ended up seated in the corner of a small yakitori restaurant.

Our waitress, a bizarre young woman named Mami, was the type who, in ancient times, would have taken a club to the head of a man she fancied and claimed him for her own. She was confident, pushy, and attractive. She wasn't cold or distant, though, just authoritative. We were going to order food and drinks, damn it, and we were going to enjoy ourselves. Mami was the law hereabouts.

Because he spoke some Japanese, Kevin and I let Joe take care of the ordering. Mami nodded curtly with each successive item. Then she turned to the kitchen and screamed our order. This was not a yell or a shout. This was the shrill cry of a harpy, the piercing wail of a banshee, and the sweet song of a siren wrapped up into one. She reached octaves I didn't believe humans were capable of. Kevin blinked a few times and meekly managed, "Sorry, and a Coke, please."

"KOKE!" Mami screamed at the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Mami returned with our drinks. I had ordered a beer and a large sake. Mami placed a beautiful, lacquered wooden box in front of me and a shot glass inside of it. Then she poured the sake into the shot glass, letting it overflow until both shot glass and box were filled to the absolute brim. "Why do they do it that way?" Kevin asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Isn't it something like 'May your cup runneth over'?"

"Oh," said the guys in unison, nodding.

"I mean, I have no idea if that's true, but it sounds good, huh?"

Confused over how to proceed after finishing the glass of sake, I looked to Mami for assistance. I oriented the box so that I could drink from one of the corners. Mami nodded for me to proceed. I raised the box to my lips and took a small sip, setting it gently down. I looked back at Mami, who was wearing a look of total disgust. She made a "bottoms up" motion with her hands and said, "Japanese-style."

Some people will call it immaturity, but I had to drink that sake. There was no other course of action. I was not going to be emasculated in front of Mami over a few shots of rice wine. Japanese-style? I'd show her Japanese-style. I drained the box in a slow, deliberate fashion, to let her know that it was neither the taste nor the alcohol content preventing me from doing so in the first place. When I looked back at Mami, however, she was practically in tears from laughing so hard. "Japanese-style!" she cried, motioning that the Japanese take their sake in small sips. Doubled over, she pointed and laughed even harder.

Mami, still laughing hysterically, walked away. I shook my head. "I need another beer."

At the restaurant.

Japan: Day 13

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